I Come From the Land Down Under

One of the most important parts of any European excursion is a person’s first interaction with traveling Australians. We—our group—met our globetrotting Aussies in Český Krumlov (The most beautiful and charming secret everyone needs to hear about and see when visiting the Czech Republic. The definition of quaint. A life-size snow globe). No one quite understands an Australian’s unique travel schedule but no one would complain either. Every traveling Australian a person meets in Europe is like a little gift. In the Czech Republic, it is like a gift from God.

The meeting is always altogether ordinary: “YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!” “I SPEAK ENGLISH!” …And you friends, mates, besties for remainder of your stay. For them (the Australians), the friendship starts and ends there. An American in awe of a Aussie’s Aussie-ness is a dime a dozen. For you (the star-struck American), you hope the lunch, dinner, trip, casual sighting…will never end. Then he or she speaks…and all of your wildest dreams have come true.

Okay, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but meeting an Australian in Europe is a lot of fun. They are fun to talk with. They are fun to drink with. They just are fun.

Auschwitz

Auschwitz is sad. There is really no other way to describe it. The second a person sets a foot onto the camp, it is like his or her body has walked into a bubble of sadness. Around you see hundreds and hundreds of people, but somehow the area is quiet — minus a few claps of hard-soled shoes and the occasional, “Oh, my God!” It is impossible for a person to smile cordially, let alone with joy.

Three quarters of a century later, there is still no joy inside of Auschwitz. Perhaps it is lost amidst the remnants of torture chambers and killing machines, but more likely it was taken with tattered shoes and clothing as a helpless million walked into hell on earth.

Joy will never come back to Auschwitz. It can’t. The best a person can do now is to try to learn from the painful experiences of others in the hope that our sometimes-evil world retains as much joy as possible. If not, we may as well give up on hope too.

Lawn Care, or Lack There of

I would like to introduce Europe to proper lawn care—if only for the next three weeks. Lawns in the Czech Republic often resemble something similar to a cattle grazing pasture—but without the cattle and with some of the most beautiful tulips a person could ever imagine. Sadly, instead of proudly displaying his or her beautiful tulips, people often let them become hidden behind a foot and a half of overgrown grass and dandelions. To me (the American), it is like Europeans are lost to the beauty that is proper lawn care. To them (probably the rest of the world), proper lawn care does not make sense.
An old episode of This American Life made me mildly aware of the sort of distain many Europeans have for lawn mowers and hedge trimmers before coming to the Czech Republic. According to the European interviewed in the episode, mowing one’s lawn regularly is a sign of conformity that reminds many people in Europe of communism and totalitarian regimes—especially in Central and Eastern Europe. While this makes sense—because nothing says conformity quite like the suburban image of “little boxes on the hillside”—I still cannot help wanting to show them (the Europeans who do not mow their lawns) that a little bit of conformity can be good—you know, like driving on the right side of the road or liking the Goonies. Then, perhaps. I could escape the mutant mosquitoes that have taken over my residence. Sadly, I do not see the tides turning—or the grass trimming—any time soon.

Polish Beer Needs to Remain in Poland

There is a reason Polish people only drink hard alcohol…and it has nothing do to with tradition. It is the theory of this writer that Polish people are constantly trying to wash back the taste of their beer. Nothing short of 80 proof can bring a person’s taste buds back to any state of normalcy.

After my first experience with Zywiec, the national beer, all of Poland became a bit dimmer. The grass was no longer as green…the sun not nearly as bright…but seriously, a pile of horseradish would have please my mouth more.

The traditional and delicious Polish perogi helped me to choke the painful brew down, but my victory was short lived. I spent the better part of three hours trying to escape the bitter toxin that had taken over my whole body. Coke and water did nothing to let my body leave it behind. Just as I was preparing to make run for a little of that 80 proof, I was released. All I can say is Zywiec can remain in Poland, and I will go back to the Czech Republic—and I will not bid it a fond farewell.

There is No Place Like Home

No one person is safe from homesickness. A person can be having the time of his or her life one night. Then, a split second later, he or she wants nothing more than a Runza sandwich and a hug from his or her mother.

My first signs of homesickness came as I was walking back from the big box store. Jolly as I could be, I was clinching the world’s most delicious chocolate bar and thinking about all the wonderful opportunities I have coming in the next few weeks. Then, I saw her: my high school math teacher as she stepped into her car. A few minutes later, I saw a friend walking a dog. Finally, I see one of my coworkers reading a newspaper. As I would step closer and closer to each of these individuals, excited to make conversation, I would just as suddenly realize how impossible it was that these people were gallivanting around the Czech Republic. As I arrived back to my empty dorm room, I realize how much I miss the life I left behind.

To be able to take part in a study abroad experience is one of the greatest opportunities any person can be afforded. The participant is literally taking on the world, and no person can come back the same. This fact has made me feel guiltier and guiltier about my growing desire to step back into the “Cornhusker State.” However, at this particular moment, nothing in the world sounds greater than a glass of ice tea with extra ice, a prime rib dinner, and the company of my closest friends and family. Honestly, I would settle for the tiniest taste of stable Hastings in the chaos that is the rest of the world. Dorothy said it best, “There is no place like home.”

A Long Story...Short

There was a bus, a tram, a subway, and a train…that got our group back to Rome from the beach. We had secured plane tickets for Thursday the 22nd of April from Milan to Prague late Monday night, and we figured we would spend a short Wednesday afternoon in Italy’s fashion capital before bunking down in the airport for our flight the next morning.

And then the fun began…we arrived at the Rome train station at 8:29 am with the intent of buying a ticket on the first train to Milan—at 8:33am. As you may or may not have guessed, we did not make the first train, so we bought a ticket on the second train scheduled to leave at noon and arrive in Milan around 7:00pm. Not a problem, we would just catch dinner in the city, right? Wrong, a train derailment caused a two hour delay for our train that only made my getting up at 6:00 am that much more pleasurable.

We arrived in Milan: smelly, tired, and a bit temperamental around 10:00pm hoping, praying, and pleading that our flight the next morning would not be cancelled.

We found a place to eat. We found a place to check the Internet. We found our way to the airport. We crashed.

And we commenced the longest night of my life. I could pretend that I was tough and say it wasn’t that bad, but my middle class upbringing has caused me to covet certain things. The least of which is a bed with a blanket and a real shower. Freezing, fearing the loss of our possessions, and just downright uncomfortable, I wanted nothing more than for morning to come.

The next morning—never so happy to get out of bed—we prepared for our flight. On time and ash free we make to the City of Spires, but we are still a bus, a train, and a tram away from our almost homes. 36 hours of travel and many purchases of price gouged food later, we arrive to our almost real beds. And we stayed there for the next 36.

It’s a Sunset

For spring break, our group was pretty meticulous—honestly, we were downright anal. We had multiple planning meetings lasting no less than two hours each. Books detailing what we should and should not see, and how to get there. And comprehensive spreadsheet outlining every dime and every minute we planned to spend. Honestly, the Travel Channel had nothing on our group.

Then the message came: “Dear Sir or Madam:/We regret to inform you that your flight destined…has been cancelled due to the ongoing…” Words cannot describe how disheartening a letter like that can be when a person is several hundred miles away from their already temporary home. What does a person do? Where does he or she go?

My worry wasn’t that we wouldn’t have something to do—we were in Rome after all. My worry was that we would have nowhere to go. The hostel we were staying at was already booked through the week, and the websites listing other hostels in our area weren’t much more promising. Not to mention, the newspapers and talk radio were doing nothing to improve my optimism.

So…what does a person do when all the airports are closed and all of the train tickets have suddenly skyrocketed? Well, they find the nearest beach, of course, buy a few bottles of vodka and hope it will all be over in a few days.

When they are hungry, they eat…when they are thirsty, they drink…when they are tired, they sleep, and they realize very quickly that life goes on. I may never see the Eiffel Tower or Abbey Road, but I would also never give up our few sleeps at the beach. It is a sunset, a symphony. It is that which makes life interesting.