Life Around the Map

Supply Teaching 101

rmckinley — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 02:51:00 GMT

At long last and far over due, I am writing a post about my recent experiences supply teaching in London. I have been lucky enough to spend time at a variety of lovely primary (aka elementary) schools in North London. Supply teaching in the UK is very similar to substitute teaching in the U.S. However, since London is so large, you work through a company and could potentially go to a different school every day, which makes it quite unique. Some classes have been hard, others easy, still others overwhelming. But I learn so much about teaching, my weaknesses, my strengths, and kids each day.

Some of my learning moments have been in the quiet at lunch, other in the chaos of a botched P.E. lesson, but they are all valuable. If you have every done supply work before, I'm sure you can relate. I have put together my personal Supply 101 of key lessons I learned in my first month of supply teaching.

1. Students will not give you their attention because you are an adult, a teacher, or knowledgeable in a subject, as it simply isn't impressive. Knowing their name on the first day, however, that is the most handy tool you could have.

2. You will only accomplish approximately 1/2 of the scheduled work on any given day depending on the weather, your familiarity with school procedures, and the hellion level of the students. Do not apologize; the teacher knew exactly what would happen.

3. Being odd, crazy, and interesting as a teacher will help accomplish more learning than any classroom management you could try.

4. There will be days when the lessons go perfectly, the students are attentive, and you think you could be a full-time teacher. Those days you will spend 3 hours marking maths to discover only 5 out of 30 student understood how to order decimals. Be grateful you get to walk away.

5. You will get offered more permanent long-term work frequently. It will be tempting, but if you think of adding at least another 3 hours of planning and marking to your day, it will be easy to say no.

6. Most work will be an hour away on the tube or bus, plus a 10 minute walk. This is a chance to see new parts of the city and to take in some of the most gorgeous sunrises you will ever see.

7.Wear trainers and pack your flats when it rains. There is nothing worse than teaching in squishy shoes.

8. When you have no control over a class (and it will happen) take a deep breath and remember you don't ever have to go back if you don't want to. Try reading a book or playing a geography and history game involving facts about your hometown/country.

9. Keep track of the nice kids, the smart kids. It is easy to write a note with problem students at the end of the day, and you will know them by name, but take time to recognize the bright, the behaved, and the kind as well.

10. Laugh when you mispronounce names. Smile at the students who are insecure or seem down. Congratulate students on a job well done. And remember you are helping to shape the future one small step at a time.

Our Typical Weekend in London

rmckinley — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 02:49:00 GMT

Big Ben was beautiful this past weekend, glistening in the sunlight through the branches of the trees lining the Thames. It surprised us as we explored in an effort to burn off the calories from the heaps of exquisite food we had downed at Zoe's Ghana Kitchen (my favorite was the fried plantain) after a visit to Africa in the Square. Obviously we have not really researched the tourist sights, as we had no idea the two areas were so close together.

A beautiful sunny day in Trafalgar Square

Along the way we stumbled across a substantial protest against ISIS outside the Houses of Parliament. The passion of the people could be heard from several blocks away, and a group of police officers blocked the roadways and calmly watched the group. The whole image was quite moving, as a significant number of the protests shown in the media are depicted as violent, aggressive, and not at all effective. Yet here the voice of free speech could be heard in the chant of the crowd and law enforcement stood by appearing far more as protectors than aggressors. I suppose news demands the drama of the violence rather than the mediocrity of peace.

A small chunk of the protestors

The two lovely sights were followed up by the Wembley Park sunday market the following day. Having decided to try a different cuisine each week, the loaded fry stand was up. I was a planning on ordering the poutine fries in honor of our Canadian honeymoon earlier in the year, but the beanie-bearing chef convinced us to try the loaded PB & J fries. Believe me, I was hesitant, but it was truly love at first bite. With peanut butter mustard, chili jelly, and shredded cheese it is a concoction fit for the gods that has left me craving more even after three days.

Our sets of fries, the peanut butter and jelly on the right. They kept disappearing during the photo...

The biggest seller among the young crowds, the recipe was concocted by the fry guys including their handmade peanut butter mustard, which is the equivalent of crack. I'm surprised they don't have a large line of craving-crazed expectant mothers as well, though I suppose fries aren't the healthiest choice in such cases.

Needless to say, next Sunday it will be a battle to order Lebanese or Indian instead of more fries. in the meantime I have started looking up recipes for peanut-butter mustard. I have finally found my fall comfort food.

10 Reasons to Study Abroad in London

rmckinley — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 02:48:00 GMT

The moment you have all been waiting for is here: The premiere post from guest-writer Paul. As Rachel’s non-travel-award-winning-other-half, I’m honored to present reasons why you should study in London. Although my experience is at the postgraduate level, I believe these points apply equally for undergraduate students wishing to take the leap across the pond.

10 Reasons to Study in London

1. Free Things

London is a bustling city with lots of great things happening every day, and many of these things are free including almost every art gallery and museum, countless parks and outdoor gyms, even comedy nights and rooftop movies. The Tate Modern is one such wonderful art gallery, which is conveniently near Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. On the museum side, you can visit the Science Museum, Royal Air Force Museum, National History Museum, and countless more. If you can make it through the crowd of tourists that seem to meander across London at all hours, then you can witness some incredible things for free. This is just a short list of the free possibilities you can find through websites like Time Out London or Londonist.

2. Student Discounts

As a student, chances are if it’s not free there’s probably a discount. Keep your student I.D. on you at all times, because almost every restaurant, pub, performance, or venue has some sort of student discount or concession. Even a 5-15% discount can go a long way.

3. Independence

My masters course at The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama consists of one day of lecture per week, occasional intensive days, and updates on different job placement opportunities available through my university. While other MA courses are a bit more lecture-oriented, the majority of courses in London are more independent than those in the United States. This means less time in lecture, less time taking uninteresting general classes, and more time doing independent research and job placements on subjects that really interest you.

4. Business Connections

Whether you are interested in finance or theatre, art or science, history or technology, London is an incredible hub to find work. The sheer amount of individuals working in your field will allow you the unique opportunity to find an entire community of professionals interested in the same area of specialization as your studies. Connecting to classmates, alumni, or current London professionals will give you access to the global community in almost any area of academia.

5. Multicultural

London is one of the most globally diverse cities in the world. It is home to countless cultures, languages, and religions. From your classroom, to the local pub, and even the bus and tube ride in-between you will rub shoulders with people from all backgrounds and cultures. Half of the languages you hear on the street will likely be foreign to you. London is definitely the place to make friends from all over the world.

6. Theatre

One of the largest benefits for me as a student of Central is the vibrant theatre scene. London’s West End has an incredible selection of professional, Broadway-style theatre. Add to that the international tours, regional works, and fringe theatres springing up every week, and there are more theatrical choices than anyone could imagine. The best part of all is the price: seeing a live performance is often cheaper than a film at the cinema. Sign up for the mailing lists of places like The National Theatre, Royal Opera House, and Mousetrap Theatre Projects to receive tickets for £5-15 ($8-25 US). Often universities will have free showings, and several theatres such as the Battersea Arts Centre will sometimes show new works-in-progress for donations only.

7. Libraries

If you are more inclined to spend a day in a quiet room with a book or two, London is still the city for you. As a student, you will have access to the University of London’s Senate House Library, home to over 2 million books. If that isn’t enough, you can gain access to The British Library with over 150 million items including books, online records, and magazines. On the smaller side of the spectrum, most universities have their own personal libraries, and almost every community in London has one as well.

8.Travel

Traveling to London from the United States is a big adventure, but realizing that all of Europe is right next-door is a traveler’s dream come true. Day trips and weekend trips to countries all across Europe are all within reach. Look for cheap trains all the way to Paris in just over 2 hours and very affordable flights through sites like easyJet and Ryanair. I’m sure you will soon hear about some of our weekend adventures very soon on this blog.

9. Cost

This point is a bit of a pro and con, but it’s worth hearing. With London being recently named the world’s most expensive city, and with the extravagant cost of tuition, the issue of cost generally becomes the reason many people do not choose to study in London. But the discounts available to students, eating cheap, and budgeting well make London quite an affordable option. Many master’s degrees in the U.K. are only one-year programs (two years for master’s of fine arts), rather than three years in the states. Similarly, undergraduate degrees are typically three years rather than four. While one year in London may not seem to be the cheapest way to obtain a master’s degree, you may find it much more cost effective than three years in a city in the States.

10. Memories

Finally, and most importantly, studying in London will give you lifelong memories. When asked about your alma mater at your first job interview post-graduation, will you answer with a smile or an embarrassed shrug? When your children ask about your times at university will you have stories to tell? Studying abroad, particularly in such a well-known city, isn’t all about bragging rights or getting ahead in life. It’s about the memories you create and the wider horizons you will be exposed to, the people and places you will remember for years to come.

Studying abroad, like traveling, is something few enter unafraid, but even fewer leave unchanged.

London Food on the Cheap

rmckinley — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 02:46:00 GMT

London has recently been ranked as the most expensive city in the world (surpassing even Hong Kong), but that surely doesn't stop travelers from visiting or even moving to the city. Whether the draw is summer work, sightseeing, or history, almost 4.9 million people visited the city in the between July and September according to this article, making London also the most visited city in the world.

Most expensive and most visited make for a very ironic combination. As a newcomer to London, I can attest to the cost factor, especially for food and housing. But fortunately, a visit or even a longer stay need not melt your life savings. So for those on a budget or simply interested in eating on the cheap, here are tips my husband and I have for finding food that doesn't require the amputation of a limb.

Tips for Eating On the Cheap

1. Shop at the grocery

Do not underestimate this. Sure you are on vacation and it is fun to eat out and splurge. But frequently doing so here may end your vacation quite early. Thus far we have managed to live off of a budget of roughly 20-30 pounds a week for food simply by shopping at our local grocery (Asda, Tesco, or Lidl, depending on the day). We stick with main staples like rice and potatoes but include a lot of fresh fruit, veggies, and protein by buying what is on sale that day. Granted, you may not be able to cook. But even so, for roughly 4 pounds you can get a loaf of good multi-grain/seed bread, peanut butter and jelly. Enough to make picnic lunches for a week if needed. Your pockets will thank you.

2. Look for deals

I'm not talking the 9 pound meal deal signs that seem to be everywhere. I'm talking about Groupon, 2-for-1 offers and the like. If you are planning on eating out, search online for deals in the area and see if you can save a few quid. Check out the restaurant before you go, but in general we have had good luck with this approach.

3. Eat outside of the centre

Our apartment is near Wembley Arena, about a 30-minute tube ride from the city centre. Lucky for us, since all the restaurants we have seen in the centre are ridiculously expensive. In our area, there are plenty of hole-in-the-wall cafe, bars, and burger joints where we can get food for relatively cheap if we don't want to cook. Some of the places look a bit seedy, but if plenty of locals are eating there, you probably can too. Besides, some of the best kept secrets are disguised as sketchy corner pubs. So travel outside of the tourist area and take a few chances.

4. Ask about discounts/concessions

Almost everywhere we have been so far has some sort of discount for students, even 15% off the bill at our favorite burger place next door. While it isn't huge, it can add up, and it makes our burger-splurge that much easier to swallow (literally). Some have discounts for teachers, veterans, seniors, so asking can't hurt.

A burger at our favorite place, Handmade Burger Company! Best of all, buy on get one for a pound!

5. Don't drink at a pub, or a club, or out at all

No, it isn't food, but people lose a lot of money here. Yes, a beer, wine, or cocktail is enjoyable after a long day of walking in the city. No you don't have to pay so much for it. Grab a 6-pack at a nearby grocery and head to a park. Often you can get a 4-pack for the same price as one drink in a pub, so this is a quick and easy way to save money. Plus, the greenery and parks of London are spectacular and well worth a visit. Watch the sunset in Hyde park over a few ciders. Or better yet, find a couch surfing group or a meet up at someone's house and bring your own booze. The memories will be much more unique and you won't have a meltdown the next day when you look at your credit card summary.

So those are just some of the tips we have so far. Granted, we have only been living in London for a short while now, so we are not experts on the subject. Other locals may or may not agree on the tips we have offered, but they are just our personal opinion.

How do you save money on food in London? Have we missed something important? Share your personal cheap eats tips!

A Roof With a View

rmckinley — Tue, 30 Sep 2014 06:18:00 GMT

The 360 degree view of the skyline of London at sunset was absolutely free. Lights twinkled, the cool crisp air tickled my skin, and my breath fogged slightly in the air, just enough to give the deep resonating sense that fall had arrived.

The rooftop was empty save a handful of others gathered to watch a free showing of "Hot Millions" on the roof of the CLF Art Cafe in Bussey building. As it is the year of the bus, TFL and British Airways waived the normal entry charge (9-13 pounds), allowing a chance for budget-conscious romantics to enjoy the experience of a film by starlight.

One of the stunning rooftop views.

Far different from a bland cinema outing, this experience is invigorating and romantic. Climbing up five full flights of stair containing everything from a yoga studio to office rooms, you reach the top deck, which is divided into two sides. One side hosts a rooftop bar and burger stand, and the other is home to one of the Rooftop Film Clubs. Both have thrilling views of London as the sun sinks gracefully behind the skyline, leaving a rainbow of warm hues as the backdrop for the evening. Show up early to grab a fresh drink and a succulent burger (there is even a mushroom burger available for vegetarians) while the sun sets.

Headphones on and ready for the show to start!

When sufficiently satiated with the skyline (as if it were possible!), head over to grab headphones, a blanket, and some popcorn or candies for the show. It may be an old classic, a new hit, or a fringe film, but it doesn't matter: you are on a rooftop, in southern London, under the stars! Cozy up next to a loved one or simply enjoy the shared experience and memory with friends and family. Listen to fellow crowd members laugh, watch them conduct along with the music (yes, this was witnessed multiple times!), and hear the casual commentary of the audience. Stand up to stretch, take a picture (or twenty) of the rooftop view, grab more snacks or a cocktail or two. Shiver ever so softly in the cool night air. Count the stars. The possibilities never end.

But above all, breathe in the life emanating from the city, embrace the tranquility amid the bustle. Maybe it is the chill in the air sharpening your awareness, or the result of a drink too many, but feel your life deep deep down in places you had forgotten.

Remember. Remember who you are, remember where you are, and remember where you are headed.

Pain Fuels Life

rmckinley — Tue, 30 Sep 2014 06:16:00 GMT

When we first began planning our trip to Poland, most advice came in two categories. Both residents and travelers alike either recommended Warsaw or Krakow as the best city. Warsaw fans claimed Krakow was dull and touristy, while Krakow lovers were convinced there was nothing at all to do in Warsaw. Having made an enjoyable visit to Krakow once before with friends, I convinced my husband it was worthwhile, so we planned the majority of our time there. But we decided to spend time in Warsaw as well, to get our own feel for the two highly contested cities. Finally, since my husband loves coffee and I love him (and his coffee addiction) to pieces, we planned a short stay in Poznan to visit Stragan Kawairnia, a coffee shop off of this list and to help break up the long rides on the Polskibus.

Did I mention my husband loves coffee?

We started in Warsaw, where we spent 4 days exploring Old Town, eating pierogies till we were bloated, drinking Polish beer, and reveling in our first travel adventure together. We were then to have two days in Poznan, followed by 7 days in Krakow. Here is where the trouble began.

The Grand Theatre

We did not want to leave. Upon first setting foot in Poznan our eyes met in unspoken agreement. This was a place we could call home. Our AirBnb hosts, Marcin and Dominic, were the kindest and most gracious people. Everyone in the city was friendly in fact, smiling, laughing, not caring at all that we didn't speak a lick of Polish.

A beautiful park and fountain across from the theatre

The food was spectacular, from pancakes at Manekin to "pierogies z piece" (dumplings from the oven) at Chatka Babuni. The city's connection with goats ranging from two butting heads at the clock tower, statues to "ride" in a square and even an aptly-named hostel was refreshing and quaint. Add to that the small-town feel, surprising in a city of over 500,000 people, and we were hooked.

Pancakes at Manekin, filled with mascapone and strawberries

Yet we were to leave the next day in the early afternoon. Surprisingly, after only having been in town one short day, sipping on coffee, marveling at the beauty of the square, the river, and cathedral island, the feeling of being torn from home was overwhelming.

Lech brewery tour, highly recommended!

As we boarded the bus for Krakow, I took a last longing glance over my shoulder at the town that held my heart captive in its unassuming elegance. The gnawing in the pit of my stomach for the next 7 hours was not one of hunger.

Another angle in Old Town

Looking back, we could have easily changed our Polskibus tickets for a few złoty and possibly have shifted our AirBnb reservations to enjoy more time in Poznan. But sometimes this experience is necessary, even essential for the enjoyment of travel. If, as you drive off into the distance, you are satisfied with your length of stay, your level of exploration, what has been accomplished? Have you really "known" the city, experienced the culture? Possibly, but unlikely.

A pair of goats, worn on the backs from people "riding" them for photos

Sometimes feeling a burning desire to stay, to keep going, to eventually return is what spurs us on to further travel in a city, a country, the world as a whole. The pain of departing often serves as an indicator of growth, connection and change, which is why we all travel in the first place: to become something different and better than what we are. Embrace the pain. Let it become the motivation behind your adventures.

One of my favorite views of the whole trip

Minor Miners

rmckinley — Tue, 30 Sep 2014 06:13:00 GMT

We were heeded not to wander off on our own, as we would quickly become lost and die. Briefed on how to use our carbon monoxide absorbers in case of a fire in the mine, we were also informed if there was an emergency, our absorbers would last only one hour. If we could not find a way out by then, we would all die. A grim start to our seemingly safe adventure.

The braces and ongoing construction in one chamber

Before it started we were all laughing at each other, struggling to fit our different physiques into one-size-fits-most coveralls. The petite redhead from Scotland could have fit a second person in hers, Paul's were slightly too long, and mine were slightly too short, giving me a unpleasant wedgie every time I made a movement to sit or raise my arms. Considering we were embarking on a mining tour, I figured the torture was going to be continual.

A model of the system used with horses to hoist and lower objects in deep shafts

But I was blissfully wrong. The air grew cool and damp as we descended down the oldest mine shaft, the Regis, via elevator into the first level of the Wieliczka Salt Mine. We were bound for the Miner's Route, a more hands-on small-group experience than the more popular Tourist's Route. After the four of us faithfully following our leader by headlamp down paths with low-hanging ceilings covered with salt "cauliflowers", passing passages with splintering support logs, we arrived in a small opening, the former location of an underground chapel. We cautiously explored the remnants, learned how to check for unsafe gases in the air (remember fire=death), and continued on our way.

More construction

At the next stop, the men practiced sawing support logs while we women sat on the log for support. Of course, we got the chance to change places, but we were not quite as successful. Good thing we only needed to cut a starting notch for the next group. The adventure continued, where we learned how to tie ropes, the age of different shafts, chambers, and tunnels. We used a water wheel to transport water, dangerous because of its ability to dissolve salt, through the mine.

The saw master by headlamp

Descending down 60 meters to yet another level, we had the opportunity to turn off our headlamps to experience the true darkness of the mine. Darker than pitch-black, the lack of sight was oppressive and terrifying, giving me a new healthy fear of the dark. Thankfully I was not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief when the light returned. We even experienced a dynamite explosion simulation, and I got a chance to practice my map-reading skills and be the leader to several locations.

Follow the leader

But my favorite part of our grand adventure? The actual mining. A relatively simple task, armed with small picks we each had our own block of salt to whittle away at. I took my instructions to heart and began rhythmically pounding away at the chunk before me. Though only illuminated by my single beam of light, the clump seemed to transform before me, each blow sending crystals into the air, sheering off another layer of the salt. This only served to spur me on in a mining frenzy. Licking my lips in exertion, I was delighted by the taste of salt, the product of all of the crystals we were stirring into the air. It tasted of history, of secrets locked away in the darkness. The stories and lives of hundreds of miners flashed before my eyes in that one taste. What was a revelation to me was likely commonplace to them. But still, it let me take a tiny step in their shoes.

Hacking away at the salt

As we moved on and made our way out to the lighted shaft to the surface, I couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. Not in the tour, the guide, the mine, or my companions. I simply didn't want to leave. I wanted to explore, to walk in chambers that dated back to the 16th century, to measure crumbling braces for their rate of descent, to mine by light and sleep by day.

We had to follow the tradition of jumping over a cloth and getting "spanked" with a stick to earn our certificate

It only took one trip to the depths of the earth to make a miner out of me. A minor one at that, but still enthralled with a skill set and trade I had never before witnessed. Maybe it is the sense of danger lurking in the shadows, maybe the isolation and solitude, maybe even the peaceful sense of entombment. The darkness may be haunting, but the mine still calls to me, whispering of secrets hidden in the dark.

Dead Guys Make Great Connections

rmckinley — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 01:37:00 GMT

We were too early, and I kept apologizing.

We were finishing up our journey of tracing Hemingway’s steps through Madrid. I remembered partly along the journey that we had started too early for the Spanish. It was only 10, and the entrances to many shops and restaurants remained closed, waiting for the people of Madrid to wake up after late night revelry. Thus far it had been more akin to staring at the shuttered faces of closed restaurants, hotels, and bars (lets be honest, mostly bars). But we hit a stroke of luck, and our last stop was open.

A mini replica of the restaurant. We ate on the bottom level, which was dark and cool and awesome.

We were at the oldest restaurant in the world, Sobrino de Botín, where we took the plunge and ordered the roast suckling pig, mentioned inThe Sun Also Rises, in honor of Hemingway. Sipping on sangria at our cool underground table, I felt like we had gone back in time. I could almost picture Hemingway sitting in the corner, scribbling away at a story just as I was scribbling away at my notes.

Our dishes arrived and we were not disappointed. As the oldest restaurant on the planet, I suppose it has had time to get the dishes perfect. The chicken was moist and tender, the croquettes steamy and delicious, and the suckling pig melted in your mouth like warm butter. Delicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The best sangria I have ever had!

I don’t even know how we all got there. An unlikely trio of a Venezuelan, and Italian, and an American, brought together simply to share in the memory of a man. But as we laughed over who should finish the sangria, took pictures to commemorate our experience, and made our way back to our hostel, I felt a deep sense of joy. While I was happy to have seen many of Hemingway’s “favorites” I was even happier to have shared the experience.

Regardless of age, heritage, travel style, and life goals, a deceased author allowed us all to make a meaningful connection. I will look back on that meal someday and I may not remember the taste of the pig, the sweet aroma of the sangria, or the cost of the meal. But I will remember the smiles, the laughs, the names, and the friendships. That is what makes me the happiest of all.

My new friends from Venezuela and Italy.

Home Sweet Home Away From Home

rmckinley — Mon, 8 Sep 2014 03:11:00 GMT

I missed the water. The music of the lapping waves. The scent of wet sand and driftwood. The festival in Bilbao was fascinating, but there was a lull in the afternoon and the coast was calling to me. I wasn’t even sure if I could reach the water by public transport but I was determined to try.

Jumping on the main line bound for Plentzia, which was off my map, I headed north as far as the tracks would take me. Twenty minutes later, I was stranded only two stops from my destination as we flooded off of our broken train. But I was stubborn, and after questioning several security guards, I discovered I could take a free bus to the next stop to grab another train.

Off I went, following the trail of flip-flop and towel-laden locals. Half an hour later, I arrived at my destination hot, sweaty, and satisfied. Dozen of boats dotted the river in front of me, the aqua water glistening in the sun, and paddleboarders waved hello as the waves lapped their feet. I had found my paradise.

I quickly made my way to the water front and, finding it crowed with people, searched for a quiet corner. I did not have to search long as the cobblestone wall and path opened at several points, providing rocky stairways to the water. Most people seemed only to use these stairs for boat and paddleboard access, and a few were occupied by schoolchildren, relishing their last few days of summer with free-spirited plunges into the blue. Finding one set of stairs unoccupied, I quickly lost my shoes and pranced my way down to the edge, rolling up my pants on the way down. I must have been a sight, all wobbles and giggles and joy.

Plunging my legs in the water, it was like the icy coolness instantly quenched an inner thirst I could not explain. Growing up near lakes, rivers, and streams, water was not just something to drink or play in; it was a part of life, a connection, a memory.

Dangling my legs in the river, I surveyed my surroundings. In the midst of the chaos, the whirlwind of Spanish, the scent of churros and sand and sea, I had found my haven. I was home.

My First and Last Fight

rmckinley — Sat, 6 Sep 2014 05:51:00 GMT

The way her nose crinkled in barely disguised disapproval when I told her of my plans came as a bit of a shock. I knew the younger generation in Spain was by no means a fan of bullfights, but I did not think it would be so frowned upon for me, a curious tourist, to attend. Little did I know that it is tourists such as me that are often a driving force behind the bullfights the young Spaniards take such an aversion to.

Making my way to my seat perched high about the arena was a simple enough task. I had chosen to it as high as possible so that I did not have to be too close to the “action.” I did not know much, if anything, about bullfights, but the bits and pieces I had put together made me hesitant to sit any closer. Unfortunately, I was seated between a hulking odorous woman with hefty binoculars slung around her neck and a gentleman who looked like he walked out of The Godfather chain-smoked cigars and attempting to converse with me in heated Basque, despite my pleas of “English, por favor,” and “I don’t understand.” Despite the haze of smoke burning my eyes, repeated attacks from the dangling binoculars, and constant scent wafting my direction, I was determined to make the most of my location.

The bullfight started with pomp and fanfare, and I will admit I enjoyed it from the start. The costumes of the banderillos and picadores, the beautiful capotes (capes) and the pomp and circumstance associated with the introduction of all the key players. I even enjoyed watching the main men, the matadors de toros, “dancing” with the bull in the beginning stages of the fight. I was beginning to think it wasn’t all as bad as I had been led to believe. But once the picadores reappeared, the appeal was quickly shattered.

I had an extremely difficult time willing myself to stay in my seat for the remainder of the “performance.” Watching the injury and eventual death of the six bulls in the arena that day was one of the more trying tasks of my life thus far. Surrounded by individuals bearing binoculars trying to get a closer look, ears ringing with shouts of “Ole!” and other Spanish cheers, I took refuge in furiously scribbling notes on the rituals of the sport, much to the delight of cigar-smoking friend, who continuously encouraged me with “List!” and a plethora of Basque and hand-gestures.

The highlight of my time at the arena? The moment when the 6^th and final bull was about to be released into arena and the crowd went silent. Not as a result of the bull, but because a plainclothes man bearing a faded red flag and a makeshift spear had leapt over the outer wall and into the arena. A banderillo was quick to step in, but was immediately placed in a one-handed choke by the renegade. Security jumped into the situation and chased the man a short ways, but just as they nabbed him, the bull charged into the arena and headed straight for them. You could hear the crowd gasp in unison, as the security guards vaulted themselves and the intruder over the edge just as the bull reached them. Once everyone was safe, the silence was broken by cries and jeers the likes of which I had never heard, as the people were audibly and visibly appalled at the audacity of the imposter. After all, he not only endangered his own life, but the lives of several others with his bravado. The renegade’s career as a matador is over, but interestingly enough, the famous El Cordobés got his start in bullfighting in such a manner.

In reflecting on my experience, I can understand some of the attraction of the bullfights. The tradition is steeped in history and many of the attendees are from an older generation. The footwork of the toreros is spectacular, much like watching a dancer on stage. And the killing of the bulls does not bother some, for it is viewed as apart of the show.

But for me, that will be my first and last bullfight. I grew up in a hunting family where the killing and eating of animals was normal. But my stomach still has not developed the strength or the taste for sports such as bullfighting. Still, according to the receptionist at my accommodation, tourism is a main factor in why bullfighting survives despite the lack of support. And with the disapproval or at minimum lack of interest of the younger generations of Spaniards, I must wonder how much longer the tradition will survive.

Remember to Breathe

rmckinley — Thu, 28 Aug 2014 01:44:00 GMT

I was wrong. So very, very wrong. And as usual, I had to learn it the hard way. I never thought travel could wear me out. I thought I was invincible, constantly dreaming of the next place to go, the next thing to do, how I would love to be on the road forever. But exhaustion combined with a mild case of food poisoning did me in (FYI: if you order a burger, please make sure it is cooked before you eat half of it).

When I jumped on the train to Madrid it was a cool morning in Bilbao, and even though I had gotten very little sleep because of festival life, I felt fairly decent and ready to go. The train pulled out of the station and I peered out the window for several hours, watching the rolling hills, tiny cottages, vineyards, and mountains pass by. I dozed on and off, catching up on missed sleep from the night before, but careful so as not to miss a choice piece of scenery.

We arrived in Madrid in the early afternoon, and I quickly checked into the hostel and mentally prepped myself for an evening of tapas, museums, and possibly a show at a local theater. But once I sat down on my bed, I collapsed. I did not have the energy to move a single muscle and was drained both physically and mentally. Moving to adjust the pillow behind my head literally took every ounce of energy I could muster.

This could not be happening. Not now. Not in Madrid, where I so longed to trace Hemingway’s footsteps, wander the Prado, and bask in the history. Not on the final stop of my trip, my last few days in Spain. I was immensely frustrated at myself for being so “lazy” and not going straight out to see and experience Madrid. What kind of traveler was I, just sitting in my hostel bed staring at the wall?

I could have forced myself to keep going. To push through it all and go out anyways. But instead I sat in my bed, drinking copious amounts of water and talking with my new roommates. I caught up on research, writing, and planning. And I let my body recuperate from late nights, early mornings, and busy days.

Sometimes travel means being on the go all the time, making the most of each day in a new country or city. But it also means occasionally taking some downtime to relax with fellow travelers and simply enjoy new environment from a place of comfort.

If I ran myself ragged, would I really be making good memories and having positive experiences, or will I simply be going for the sake of going? I want to travel out of passion, and I want to go places and see things out of desire, not a feeling of obligation.

So what if I miss seeing a few tourist sights along the way, don’t get to eat at a specific restaurant, or sleep in an extra hour? Does that mean I have not traveled, have not seen, have not experienced? I think not. I believe it means I know when to slow down, to breathe in, to rekindle my fire. To remember what I love, why I live, and what makes me feel alive. And today that has made all the difference.

An Inspirational Wedding Failure

rmckinley — Thu, 28 Aug 2014 01:24:00 GMT

It’s not every day you marry your cousin. It’s also not every day that your wedding day turns out to be a complete disaster. But such was the fate of Queen Isabella II of Spain. Oh the things you learn on walking tours.

Crowned at the age of twelve, Isabella turned down every proposal because she was in love with her cousin, Francisco de Asís de Borbón, who she eventually married. While most wedding days and nights are typically full of happiness and bliss, this was not the case for Queen Isabella.

On her wedding night, she discovered that her new husband was in fact, not at all interested in women, but rather men. Her heart was irreparably broken, and since divorce was only legalized in Spain a mere 33 years ago, she had few options. So she did what most women in her situation would do: she kicked him out. Out of her room, out of the palace, out of the city of Madrid. Fortunately for Madrid, Isabella’s second love proved to be much more fruitful.

The arts in Madrid up to that point were mainly funded by churches, which only supported arts with some sort of religious undertone or purpose. Dissatisfied with such limitations on the arts, Isabella founded the Teatro Real (Royal Theatre), which was finished in 1850. The theatre has 15 stories (8 above ground/7 below), one of the most advanced staging systems in the world, and has served as an essential contributor to the now vibrant arts and theatre community in Madrid. It currently hosts operas, recitals, ballets, and provides various tours of the interior.

Unrequited love does not always have such a positive result, and as a lover of all things theatre, I’m thankful her tragedy found a creative outlet. So thanks Francisco, for being such a jerk, and for driving Isabella into the arms of something much more valuable. Bravo!

Hello, Bilbao!

rmckinley — Sun, 24 Aug 2014 09:26:00 GMT

It started out as a rainy miserable day. I had to catch an early train from Barcelona to Bilbao and thankfully it was only a ten-minute walk, as it was just starting to drizzle. With the clouds hanging like an impending doom over the train, I had trouble staying awake through the darkness.

By the time we were halfway to Bilbao, the clouds had lessened considerably, and the rain had ceased. There were even occasional patches of sunshine through which to take photos. Unfortunately this did not last long, and as we reached the outskirts of Bilbao, the rain began to come down. The drops slid effortlessly across my window, almost dream-like in their race. Between drop I could see cracks of the city.

White, yellow, and orange houses with rust-colored roofs. Seemingly abandoned buildings with faded wall and broken windows, laundry out to dry covered by plastic tarps, graffiti along crumbling cement walls. All shadowed in fog. Hello Bilbao.

As we ventured nearer the city center the buildings grew closer together, cars became more frequent, and passers-by could be seen huddled under umbrellas., scuttling through the rain. But it still seemed peaceful, quiet, serene. Hardly a town in the midst of a festival.

We pulled into Abando station, and I stepped gingerly off of the train, as if my presence would somehow shatter the illusion of calm around me. Making my way down to the metro, I was shocked to see the station packed with people bustling to and fro, chattering away. Most wore patterned blue bandanas around their necks bearing the words “Aste Nagusia,” and several had on what I guessed were parts of traditional Basque clothing. I had arrived.

Bilbao had deceived me. By all appearances it was a sleepy town, with paint-chipped houses and empty cafes. I could have easily passed it by, written it off as just another town along the line. The vibrance and life of the city ran undetected, just under the surface of perception.

As I waded my way through hoards of locals clapping and dancing, I couldn’t help but join in the celebration. “Welcome to Aste Nagusia!” cheered a neighbor, recognizing my foreign accent. The animation and exuberance of the people was intoxicating, and I was soon overwhelmed with joy.

The clink of glasses raised in a toast. The scent of beer and grease and rain. The cheers of the revelers.

Hello, Bilbao.

Nameless Friends

rmckinley — Sat, 23 Aug 2014 08:27:00 GMT

Considering the fact that I spent close to an hour panting behind her like a woman in labor, I’m surprised she acknowledged my existence, let alone wanted to talk with me.

We had spent the past hour headed up to Montserrat Monastery on a lovely air-conditioned tour bus. Not so lovely were the switchbacks carving our way up the mountain, and my motion sickness pills were not working, The views were extravagant, so naturally I wanted to take pictures. After only 15 minutes, I had to take an extended break to breathe and calm my stomach. “I will not lose it, I will not lose it,” became my mantra. I managed about 5 photos in between my breathing sessions.

Once at the top we were given about an hour to roam about and explore the basilica, take photos, or hike along one of the trails leading to other chapels on the mountain. I took a few photos, hiked along a trail, and wandered the farmers market sampling goat and sheep cheese, honey, and fig cakes. I was headed back to the bus, munching on candied almonds when she said hello.

At first I did not recognize her, and then I remembered she had been in the seat in front of me. I shrank at first, praying she didn’t ask what the labor breathing was about, but the conversation progressed quite normally. We talked about what we enjoyed the most about the tour, about Montserrat, about Barcelona. I learned she was from the Ukraine, Kiev specifically. We discussed vacations, work, and plans for the next day (she was going to the sea, and I was off to Bilbao). Then it was time to get back on the bus.

I had enjoyed chatting with her very much, but I figured we would sit separately again, especially since I had confessed to getting motion sickness on the way up. But much to my surprise and delight, she asked if she could sit with me. “You help me practice my English.” I was flattered and more than happy to have company on the journey down. We talked more about her home country, how I had always wanted to visit there and about current disagreements among the people. I was fascinated watching her work through difficult mental translations. I remember the difficulty of knowing how to say something in English but not knowing the words in French. The constant mental translation was exhausting, but she didn’t seem to mind and made it look much easier than I remembered. We laughed and chatted, but sometimes just sat in silence listening to traditional music or admiring the mountain landscape.

Upon arriving once again, we walked together a short ways over to the fountain on La Rambla. It is said that if you drink from the fountain you will come back to Barcelona someday. I wanted to take a drink, so she joined me, and then we parted ways. “Goodbye. Have a safe trip tomorrow!” “Thank you, enjoy the sea!” Gone as quickly as she appeared, my Ukrainian friend was quickly lost in a sea of faces.

Suddenly I realized…I didn’t even know her name.

Not All Who Wander Are Lost...But Some Are

rmckinley — Fri, 22 Aug 2014 08:21:00 GMT

You know you are lost when you can’t find your destination on a map. You know you’re REALLY lost when you can’t find your current location on a map.

The directions from the airport to the hostel were simple. Catch the train, the only train leaving the airport. Ride for 15-20 minutes. Get off at Sants Estació. Walk 10 minutes to the hostel. It sounded easy enough. But my journey went as follows:

Upon arriving at airport a half an hour late due to “technical malfunctions” I took a bus to Terminal 2 to catch the train (red flag number one, as it was not mentioned in the directions). None of the ticket machines at the station worked in English (red flag number two), so I begged a ticket from the disinterested man at the information counter. Then I jumped on the train, the only train leaving the terminal.

I rode the train for 20 minutes with no recognizable stops. Looking up the next stop on my offline iPhone map, I found it was way off track from the hostel. Figuring it was just taking a different route, I looked at chart of destinations on the train wall. There was no Sants Estació, no Sants, nothing even close. My heartbeat quickened a bit, but I decided to get off at the next stop, Barna Sants, to problem solve.

After wandering around the station 3-4 times, I asked several people for help. Nobody spoke English, or they feigned confusion, I couldn’t decipher the difference. I checked the map again, and couldn’t find the train station or any of the roads nearby, so I started walking back the direction I came.

As I crossed a recognizable road, I make a quick right and started following a route to the hostel. After about a mile, I happened across the Casa Batlló by the famous Antoni Gaudi. I almost missed it, completely focused on my trek, but suddenly I found myself in a crowd of tourists taking photos. It felt like a sign that I was doing ok, that I would arrive soon, to keep pressing on. So I did. Three miles later, I collapsed at a restaurant/bar with faded paint, a sign dangling from one hook, and rickety black outdoor seating. “Agua….por favor, ” I gasped at the gaunt old Catalan man gaping at me. Soaked in sweat, waddling like a penguin from blisters, and hunched from the weight of my backpack in the oppressive heat, I must have looked a special sort of charming. Making a quick meal of my patatas bravas and croquettes, I was soon on my way again. A mile later I had supposedly arrived. Or so my map said.

Realizing by this point that very few people older than me had knowledge of or were willing to speak English, I sought out the younger generation in the skate park across the road. Choking my way through a veritable cloud of marijuana smoke I found two young men who spoke English. But they had no idea where my hostel was. I wandered each surrounding block several times to no avail. After four hours of wandering, I just wanted to lie on a flat surface and cry myself to sleep. I was drained both physically and mentally. I felt so utterly hopeless.

I decided to go into one last hotel and ask for help. Again, no English, but she tried her best, even though she did not know the location either. Another guest was checking in who apparently knew the street, so she walked me there. We wandered together for a while, her talking in Spanish and asking questions, pretending I understood. I followed her diligently, providing answers to questions I didn’t even know were being asked, doing the best I could to communicate.

She eventually found a woman in a market who knew the hostel and gave us directions. She walked my there and as I saw the sign, relief washed over me. I gave her a hearty handshake and offered a horrendously pronounced “Gracias, muchas gracias” as thanks. “Nada, nada,” was the reply. A single tear escaped and slid down my left cheek. She sighed and offered comfort in a language I spoke: a hug.

Never before has a hug from a stranger felt so warm, so understanding. We did not know each other, yet she went out of her way for over fifteen minutes to help. We could not share a single spoken work of understanding. Yet in my moment of need, she was there. Our shared human experience allowed us to bond regardless of background, age and culture.

I am not sure I would have ever found my lodging were it not for the kindness of one woman. After 5 hours of trekking, wandering, and confusion, she saved me. She may never know just how much her unspoken words meant to me, but I like to think that through that hug, words passed between us that did not need to be spoken.

I understand. I have been there too. It will be okay.

And that was all I needed to hear.

Losers Win

rmckinley — Thu, 21 Aug 2014 07:35:00 GMT

He started and ended in black pumps and a pleated navy skirt, his crimson lipstick a shade too bright for the lighting. He made the announcement in Czech that we were boarding for Barcelona and to take our seats for departure. There was take-off, beverage service, turbulence, plane malfunction, and eventually an evacuation into the water. All of this was accomplished in less than 10 minutes with only a costume and voice. It was one of the most riveting performances I have ever seen, and it was only the beginning of the LOSER(S) show at Letni Letna.

I had heard of a duo called Daemen who were winners of the first year of Czech and Slovakia Has Talent. The circus and acrobatics have always intrigued me, and they duo had gathered other acrobats and dancers to put together a full-on show.

As the dust settled in the giant big-top circus tent, I squinted past the haze of light to try and get a glimpse of the stage. A single carpet appeared front and center, cream-colored, with glow tape on the floor strategically placed at the corners. After the hilarious introduction from the narrator (who also provided sound effects, beat boxing, accents, comedic relief, music, and a hoard of other talents), there were many other performances that were a treat both to the eyes and ears.

A stunning woman dressed in red performed what I could best refer to as lyrical dance. A second tiny woman was thrown, carried, tossed, and bent in unimaginable (and quite frankly terrifying) ways. The five men in the group displayed strength and flexibility beyond which I had ever seen. At one point the tiny woman was tossed into a one-handed handstand on the top of a two-person tower. The intensity was so high within the crowd and the performers I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.

Through gasps and winces, oohs, and ahhs, applause and stunned silences, the perfomers pressed on, determined to put on the best show possible. Their success was written on the enthralled faces of the crowd as they were brought out for over four encores. Eventually the crowd slowly trickled out of the tent and separated to the various corners of Letensky Park.

As I walked slowly toward the bus, I smirked with satisfaction at the show that was part dance, part comedy, part acrobatics, part theatre, part synchronization. Through LOSER(s) Daemen and their team had won yet again, and this time I had been a witness.

Marionettes: A Prague Nightlife Alternative

rmckinley — Wed, 20 Aug 2014 08:24:00 GMT

Over the course of two hours the “actors” ran into the set, a player went on public strike, and the conductor threw water at us in drunken fits (and I was lucky enough to be directly in the line of fire).

Not keen on the typical nightlife activities offered for young people my age, I sought out an alternative to the many pub crawls, beer tastings, and club parties in Prague. A fan of theatre and performing arts, I came across a marionette opera performance and knew I had found my cup of tea.

I had never seen an opera before and had never heard the story of Don Giovanni, so I knew I would at least be somewhat lost. Add to this the fact that the entire show would be done with marionettes, and I was sure I was in for a treat.

As I sat on an aged wooden seat amidst in a crowd of tourists and families with children in a quaint auditorium, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The shrill buzz of a horn hushed the room and the curtain rose.

From the instant the performer-directed puppets came on stage I was enthralled. They sang, they danced, they bowed and curtsied and begged. They came alive with each agile movement of the players’ hands. When I attempted to recreate the simplest of these movements, walking, with a small marionette after the show, I managed what looked like a very drunken, broken-legged stumble. So much for a career in marionettes.

But truly, the entire performance was a treat for the eyes and ears. It was an interactive show, suitable for both young and old, with cheeky references to the audience, and ample amounts of physical comedy. Even with the language barrier, I was able to quite easily follow the story displayed before me. The crowd gasped in surprise when the puppet of the conductor, Mozart, tossed cupfuls of water towards the crowd. When a player went on “strike,” hung his puppet up, and scolded the other marionettes for taking too much time on a song, you could see the gleeful smirks on the faces of those in the crowd. And when marionettes tripped and fell or ran into scenery (all on purpose of course) the room filled with the laughter.

Beginning to end, my experience at the National Marionette Theater was enthralling and showed me just how much a show can accomplish through the use of wooden puppets. Whether you speak Czech or Italian, Korean or English, it is live performance shows such as these that prove communication does not always mean speaking the same language.

Crying for the "Bad Guy"

rmckinley — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 01:00:00 GMT

My tour guide made me cry today. Not an uncontrollable sob, like when I said goodbye to my fiancé at the airport for four more months apart, but a heart-wrenching painful stream of tears that I could not fight back. I was thankful for sunglasses to cover my shame.

Like most American high school students, most of what I learned about the end of World War II and the entirety of the Cold War happened over a 3-4 week period in high school. I had a basic grasp of the holocaust and the aftermath that followed. Or so I thought. Clearly it was not nearly basic enough.

In just under three hours, our expert tour guide, Rob McCracken, with Sandemans New Europe Tours had reduced my knowledge of Germany, the Berlin Wall, and the Cold War to rubble, leaving me in a puddle of tears at the significance of what I had overlooked.

In my mind, the wall had always been more of a symbol of separation than anything else. That was the impression I made, and though I knew people were not allowed to go from side to side, I did not realize what that actually meant. It meant there was actually more than one wall; there were three. It meant those who tried to escape or approach could be shot, attacked by dogs, or even impaled on spikes buried in the ground. It wasn’t just a wall as I had thought. It was a death strip, as it was so aptly named.

But oddly enough, that wasn’t what struck me the most.

On August 13, 1961 at one o’clock in the morning, the wall was erected overnight. If you had a job, family, fiancé, or even a house on the wrong side, it was all gone. Couples were unexpectedly separated, families torn apart, all without warning. For some it would be 28 years before being reunited. Approximately 5,000 escaped, 1500 of which were young border guards, disliking murdering their own countrymen, seized opportunities to flee.

As I thought to my husband, who is thousands of miles away right now, in a different country, a different time zone, it became suddenly real to me. To fly home and be told I could no longer access a part of my country, could not see my husband indefinitely, possibly permanently. To wait 28 years before having an answer to all my questions: Is he still alive? Is he in Germany? Does he have a new family? Kids?

The emotional turmoil must have been unbearable. It is no wonder there are 138 known deaths of those attempting to escape. One woman sewed herself into the seat of a car so a person with the proper identification could drive her across the border. Others attempted escape through Checkpoint Charlie, one of three access points mainly used for military, government, and diplomatic officials. The desperation was apparent, but the oppression was overwhelming

Twenty-eight years later, on November 9, 1989, a mistake at a press conference changed history. Once the borders were opened to the people, they were never closed and the cry of “We are one people” could be heard in the streets. Life would never be the same again for the people of Germany. It still will never be the same.

With such a tumultuous past, Germany is often given a negative reputation as a result of a historical leader. But how is the suffering of Germany being overlooked? Were they not also ravaged by the wars in some way? I had cried many times for the Jews, but had never contemplated crying for the Germans.

It is not one person that makes a country, not a government leader, religion, or social movement. It is the people. And with most of the wall torn down, I could finally see the immense suffering and angst of the people on both sides.

Photos: Travel Scholarship Road Trip

rmckinley — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 08:02:00 GMT

East Side Gallery: Who Gets a Voice?

rmckinley — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 07:55:00 GMT

Perhaps Thomas and Karine are both descendants of survivors, high school sweet hearts, or simply Berlin lovers. But does who they are even matter? Does their heritage, talent, or popularity deny or grant them a voice?

That was the question I asked myself as I pondered the scenes before me at the East Berlin Gallery this morning. Seeing the beautiful work of street artists juxtaposed with graffiti was a bit difficult at first. I found myself angered that such raw and sacred art had been desecrated by graffiti such as “Superchicken was here” and “Thomas+Karine 2014.” But the closer I looked, the more my vision changed. I realized I had a very narrow vision of the purpose and point of the gallery. For so long, the Berlin wall stood as a symbol of anger, of the brokenness of a country and people. But now that brokenness has found a voice through the people of Berlin and those who visit the gallery.

The gallery was meant for expression, not in a specific content, form, or medium, but simply for sharing hope and the human experience. Whatever that means to the individual is what happens, and it is beautiful. After all, who am I to say what is or is not valid content for the gallery? The East Side Gallery is an opportunity to expose your heart, not so that others can say it is right or wrong, but as an outlet for future generations.

Maybe Superchicken felt alive while writing on the remnants of the wall, and maybe Thomas and Karine achieved a lifelong dream through marker on concrete. No matter the case, each individual has as much right to expression as a famous street artist commissioned to do a particular piece. The wall, a tangible symbol of anger and war for so long, has been given the chance to represent wholeness and freedom, and that is exactly what the people of Berlin are making it to be. It is raw and gritty, and while the law does not technically allow new additions, the people have been given a voice, and they refuse to be silenced.