It has been 11 days since my last post. The reason being not quite black and white, but not quite complex either. I have not posted in 11 days because for the last 11 days, the excitement and nostalgia has been slightly diminished by a combination of weather, school and general laziness.

Shortly after my last post, I realized that I had in fact been here two months, and that during that time not much studying had been done on my part. I countered this by catching up on my reading for the next few days, as well as preparing for several assignments that were to be due the next week (i.e. last week). All this studying was accompanied by weather that seemed to follow my mood. Rain, wind, cold, and more rain ravished Nijmegen for more than a week. This didn’t help my mood any, and made going to class even more grueling than before. The 20 minute bike ride to campus stretched into what seemed like hours, what with the wind perpetually against me… and rain, did I mention rain?

Anyway, these things made the weekend seem more of a recuperation period than a time to tire myself out with travel and sight-seeing. And thus, no travel and sight-seeing happened. So, after two weeks of work in my two months abroad, I was tired. And for some reason, not just tired, exhausted. This made no sense because at home I did this amount of work every week, yet, for some reason, I was truly exhausted.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t sit around my room all last week, but rather, I remained in Nijmegen, and, after some much needed study time, met with friends, drank a beer or coffee to warm ourselves from the cold, complained about the weather (especially the rain), talked about everything, and nothing in particular, and ultimately, relaxed. Perhaps some of the best times I have had here are days when all we did was relax. In this way, last week may have been the most successful week of my stay.

So, here I am. It has been a little over two months, which is still unthinkably hard to believe, and I still can not get over how amazing it is. I mean, I am still quite literally in awe…

I think in all languages you get to a certain point wherein words fail. Not just fail. They nose dive and crash and burn and leave no survivors behind. This point shows itself solely during truly emotional experiences – an unfathomable summit in time where every attempt to explain something comes out watered down or convoluted.

Regardless of how well you write, there are just some things that a person cannot convey with words. There is no substitute for the real thing. And, unfortunately, for a lot of the people reading this, everything I am trying to explain will just be gibberish. And for that, I am sorry. Because I really hoped I could put across how truly amazing all of this is. But unfortunately, no matter how many times I attempt to tell you everything I am feeling and seeing and doing, I will fail. Because of this, I simply cannot explain how surprisingly captivating it is to sit in a bar after biking 20 minutes in the cold, windy and rainy city, and talk with friends about everything, and nothing at all. I just can’t elucidate.

So, I hope that you have experienced this feeling in some way – the feeling that there are some things that just can’t be communicated. And I hope you cherish those times more than any other, and hold them close to you, until the very end. Because when that bright light is upon you, and your life flashes before you eyes, I guarantee, these will be the memories you see. Until then, take pride in the fact that the uncommon occurrences of the failure of words are just a sign that life is being lived to the fullest. So smile. I’ll be right there smiling with you. For reasons I cannot explain.

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George

It has come to my attention that Midwesterners don’t know how to behave themselves in certain situations. We always complain that no one famous comes to Kansas, but every time they do I see people acting foolish, trashy, or down right disrespectful. It’s as if we get so excited to have someone here to entertain us we forget all about our sense of decency and manners. There have been a few instances in the last few months that have really made me scratch my head.

David Cross came to Midland Theater in Kansas City last month to do standup. We were less than 30 minutes into the show when the performer made an all too familiar mistake: he commented on how excited he was to be in Kansas City, Kan. Well, you can probably guess what happened next – something that I’ve seen happen on numerous occasions. The audience huffed and guffawed and replied in unison: “This isn’t Kansas it’s Missouri!”

And I let out a sigh, disappointed that we couldn’t go more than one evening without bringing up this issue. Like an inside joke that spans two states, we continue to debate the boundaries of this specific city for reasons beyond my comprehension. While it is apparently endlessly fascinating for those living in Kansas and Missouri, it holds little interest to those just traveling through.

For most performers, knowing where Kansas ends and Missouri begins ranks in importance somewhere between knowing the state bird of Delaware and the current superintendent of their old high school. Just because it’s fun for us to talk about it does not mean we should bring it up in public. I have issues with the whole thing –  why don’t we just take that land from Missouri or let them rename that section “Missouri City”? Although it’s a trifling matter, I find it annoying that we can’t even name our cities properly. Anyway, the end result is that performers walk away believing Midwesterners are quaint, simple folk, who enjoy spending their time squabbling over slight details.

Quaint isn’t that bad though. I could live with quaint. I want to fight the ideas that we are trashy slobs.  And it’s not going well. In August, the theater I work for in Emporia held a country music concert, bringing in two semi-well known musicians to perform.    Now let me say right off the bat that this theater is a piece of history, recently restored and reopened. Built during the 1930s, it inspires ideas of the good old days when “going out” was actually an occasion, worthy of getting dressed up and putting on your best manners. Well it’s obvious that society does not hold to that idea much these days.

I was thoroughly grossed out by the actions of some of the audience members that night. It started simply enough –  I was surprised at how much beer was being sold.  There was an ample bar available, full of a varied selection of liquors. But the audience wanted none of that: Coors and Coors Lights were selling like hotcakes. I personally delivered two buckets of Coors (16 in each) to a table of 3, before the show even started.           That’s fine, I thought, to each their own.

The real trouble started around 9 p.m., 30 minutes into the show. I was on trash duty, checking the men’s rooms, when I saw it. Well, I smelled it first; the overpowering stench of puke, booze and dinner. Someone had thrown up in a urinal.

Viewing the damage, I could tell two things immediately; 1. This man was very drunk. 2. He ate some kind of fish and potatoes combo for dinner. (OK, let’s talk about this guy: who shows up to a concert at a NATIONALLY REGISTERED HISTORIC SITE, gets drunk off of Coors by 9 p.m., and pukes in a urinal?).

I cleaned up the mess, and reentered the concert, silently scouring the audience for the culprit. It was like one of those murder mystery dinners –  the guilty person is there, but he’s blended in with the rest of the crowd. I went about my duties for another hour or so until my boss pulled me aside.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “But there’s been another accident.” She showed me on the carpet near the lobby where the pile was still steaming. “We don’t know who did it, or if it was the same guy as before.” But I knew. I recognized that stingy smell of potatoes and beer.  He had struck again.

Cleaning up puke on carpet is never easy, especially when it’s dark and loud and very smelly. I swept up as much as I could and was on my way to get the mop when I ran into my coworker, a fellow janitor.

“I’m sorry man, I can’t believe he threw up again.” He said, with a slight smile on his face. “It’s okay, I got it cleaned up.” I replied. His smile grew wider, and we both realized he knew something I didn’t. Something in his grin told me I should probably check the men’s room again. Before I even reached the urinal I could tell by the stench that the Puker had returned to the scene of the crime. While I was busy cleaning up his second mess, he had ventured back into the bathroom, puked on the SAME urinal, and left. “How much fish does he have left in him?” I wondered as I retrieved my bucket and gloves for the third time that night.

Luckily, this story has a happy ending. As I was cleaning the bathroom the Puker was identified by one of the security guards and was escorted out of the theater. It turns out he didn’t even bother cleaning off his shirt the last time around, so it was kind of a dead give away. I entered the lobby just in time to see him and his rather embarrassed girlfriend being led out the door.

You think I’m being too harsh on my fellow Midwesterners. Maybe I am. I just want the rest of the country to start taking us more seriously, and for musicians and performers to think we are worth their time when out touring. But if we keep acting like this, it makes it hard for me to plead my case. I’m not saying we have to act fancier or smarter than we really are. I know that we can be respectable; we just don’t always go to the trouble. So the next time you go out just remember you aren’t just representing yourself, you’re representing your whole region. And please, stay away from the fish and potato dinner.

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In a little more than a week, it will be two months since I last touched American soil. This realization comes also with the realization of what my life would be like had I not decided to study abroad. I would probably be having quite a bit of fun, watching a lot of football, enjoying my new status as a 21-year-old, being in my comfort zone and hanging out with people I really like, and no doubt miss. But in the end, I think it all comes down to one of the most basic principles of economics– opportunity costs. It is what we would sacrifice, not what we would gain that ultimately determines the proper course of action to take in any given situation. For instance, what I would have sacrificed had I not studied abroad. The people, the sights, and the recreational activities are obvious examples of what would be lost. But there is something more important than that, something deeper, that would have been given up as an opportunity cost, had I not made the decision some months ago to commit half a year of my life to studying in another country—experience. The experience of studying abroad; not the beer, not the tourist- focused sightseeing burlesques that riddle Western Europe’s biggest attractions; not any of that stuff. I mean, obviously, the beer is good, and the sightseeing opportunities are tremendous, don’t get me wrong, I am not coming down on those things, I am just saying that there is something more to it than that. The practice of waking up each morning in a foreign county with nobody but yourself to lean on transcends every other prospect that has been offered to me this semester. I have experienced something that has changed me, inevitably, in a way that I am quite confident would never have happened to me in Kansas. Again, don’t get me wrong, I like Kansas a lot. It is my home, and will always be my home. But this place is something special, something different. Who knows whether or not I’ve been “changed for the better”, or what have you. Who knows? The only thing I am completely, 100% sure about is the fact that I am a different person than I was two months ago. Hell, I’m a different person than I was one month ago. For better or worse, I’m different. And I wouldn’t take back my decision to participate in the study abroad experience for anything.

So, it comes from this frame of mind that I now write specifically to any student who is reading this blog. I have one and only one genuine piece of advice for you to hopefully take wholeheartedly– study abroad. Do it. Just do it. Study abroad because you heard that it’s fun. Study abroad because you want to travel. Study abroad because you want to drink. Study abroad because you want to meet new people. Study abroad because it looks good on a résumé. Study abroad because your brother’s friend went to Italy last summer and came back raving about how great it was. Whatever your reason, however you justify it, just do it. And whatever you do, don’t, DO NOT start thinking that it is automatically too expensive for you. I don’t know how many times I have thought that before and, low and behold, I am still here, still having fun, and still living rather comfortably a budget that could only be described as scanty. Sure, you may be paying more than you would if you were living at home, but after all, if you can find a way to take money with you to the grave, let me know, and I promise I will start a savings account tomorrow. So, seeing as I have just debunked the major driving point for the opposition, you are left with a decision…

In the words of John Clellon Holmes and Jack Kerouac… “Go”. Just go. You can thank me later.

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George

A few friends and I were sitting around last Thursday when my blog got brought up in conversation. My friend Ashton said she was interested to keep reading because she wanted to know “how I was going to make Emporia sound good” every week. Before I could answer, my friend Caelee spoke up: “It’s not about making Emporia sound good – it’s what’s good about Emporia.”

I couldn’t say it better myself. The purpose of this blog is not to convince people how great Emporia is. It’s a story about how I’ve grown to love this town for what it is. And in the process I’ve learned to love Kansas and the Midwest.

To understand how noteworthy this is you first need to understand how opposed to Emporia I was. As a senior in high school, I was convinced that KU was the only college for me. (My original dream of attending the Kansas City Art Institute was quickly shot down when I realized you needed a portfolio of work to be accepted, not just ambition and a can-do attitude.)

I had it all sorted out: a double major in Environmental Policy and Filmmaking, living in a hip apartment close to the adventures of Mass Street with live music every weekend.  But one little thing got in the way: tuition. Long story shorter, I wound up at Emporia State.

To call ESU my safety school would be a gross exaggeration. I had never been to Emporia before, but I chose to let other people decide for me that the city was no fun and the school was underwhelming.  From all that I had heard, Emporia would not be supplying me with the grand collegiate experience I felt I deserved. My first year was a collage of watching movies in my dorm room and frequent weekends back home to Wichita to hang out with my family.

Before the start of my sophomore year, I decided I had to face the facts – I was going to be at Emporia State for the next 3 years, so I better get used to it. Once you accept your situation, it makes it easier to make the most of it. I began exploring the town, going out of my way to meet new people and get involved on campus. I started a few clubs, joined a few others, and within months felt connected to my campus. All it took was a sense of investment. Had I not gotten involved I would have just been a student, walking to class and back everyday.

Now I’m a member of a community, of something bigger than just myself.  My senior year is flying by and now I’m not ready to leave behind this community I’ve helped build here in Emporia. Emporia might not have changed a whole lot since I still got here, but my views of it certainly have. I now understand the idea of “small town values.” I always considered that political rhetoric used to stroke the egos of the middle class. But there is a feeling found in smaller towns like Emporia and throughout the Midwest that you don’t find everywhere. There’s a unique type of openness and personality that draws you in.

So I’m not here to convince you of anything. I just want to tell my story about a how I have stopped letting other people tell me what’s cool and instead take the time to find out for myself. It’s a lesson you can carry through a lot of situations in life: don’t judge a place (or a person) by an outer appearance. Get to know it personally and you might realize it’s got a lot more going for it than you first thought.

I’ll end today with a song. A friend of mine had spent some time in Minnesota and discovered a local rap group called Atmosphere. I was a little weary of Minnesotan rap, but I gave it a shot. Their song, “Shhh,” was the start of my interest in studying life in the Midwest. Up until this song I never thought to differentiate life in the middle of the country from life anywhere else.  He touches on a lot of the reasons why I’m so happy living where I am, and you don’t hear that kind of stuff in mainstream music very often.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nn6iU_c2cM0&feature=related

Check out the lyrics on the side to understand what I mean.

Some of my favorite lines-

“So if the people laugh and giggle when you tell em where you live
Say shhh, say shhh
And if you know this is where you wanna raise your kids
Say shhh, say shhh
If you’re from the Midwest and it doesn’t matter where
Say shhh, say shhh”

It feels like the Midwest feels embarrassed by itself when compared to other regions of America. We have a lot to proud of – we just need to remind ourselves of that every once in a while.

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Bruge Sunset

“Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to World Travel,” a book written by travel writer, Rolf Potts, is just what the title says it is. It is jammed-packed with advice, encouragement, quotes, and practical and theoretical guidance on surviving world travel, as well as getting the best out of the experience. Potts filled the book with “do’s” and “don’ts” that every traveler should know.

Among the most prominent messages in the book is an active effort of advising against trying to “do too much,” as Potts would say. This past weekend, I believe I violated this most basic of the traveler’s tenants.

The group I went with to Belgium was made up of nine or so people. Four Americans, two Australians, a Hungarian, one English guy, and a Scottish girl. We arrived in Bruges, Belgium and walked out of the train station to a fairly normal sight—a European train station surrounded by department buildings and corporate offices—nothing out of the blue. However, after the bus ride to our hostel (St. Christopher’s Bauhaus for anyone interested; it was a fairly nice one, and cheap as well—about €16/ night), we took to the streets to see what there was to see.

Bruges Skyline

The city is called “The Venice of the North”, and as we walked past canals separating 15^th century buildings decked out in all kinds of amazing architecture referred to by Italian and Spanish terms I am not prepared to attempt to spell (I should of paid attention in Art Apprec.), we discovered why. The city was truly the most beautiful I have been to since arriving in Europe about a month and a half ago. Words truly cannot describe a place such as Bruges, Belgium.

(Side note: Go rent “In Bruges” for a good look at the city. Colin Farrell plays what can only be described as a badass. Seriously. Rent it. Or download it, whatever it is you kids do these days.)

Group photo

After a day of sight-seeing and sampling of fine Trappist and other Belgian beverages, we got a few hours of shut eye and hopped a train to Brussels, the capital city of Belgium, as well as the European Union. In Brussels we took the metro to our hostel (Van Gogh Hostel), which used to employ none other than Van Gogh himself, though I believe it was before his absinthe-fueled, ear cutting escapades of which he became famous for later.

After a short rest, it was off to explore the new city once again. Brussels’ Grote Markt, Parliament building, and the various street art and statues along the way were of particular interest to me. The only perhaps disappointing attraction we saw was the infamous Mannekan Pis, which was, literally, a foot high statue of a baby, yep, you guessed it, peeing. The fact that it was thoroughly not fame worthy notwithstanding, the Pis was, well, it brought a smile to my face in any case.

An afternoon of sightseeing, and an evening of escapades (including a trip to the infamous Delirium Café, and it’s over 2,000 kinds of beer, none more iconic than the 2 Liter “boot”), and I willfully turned in for the night and woke the next morning to one of the brightest and awful (meaning filled with awe, as opposed to something bad) mornings I have ever experienced. Once again, it is difficult to explain it in a few simple words, but it felt to me like I was breathing for the first time, if that makes any sense.

Eric Hemphill

As I walked along the streets attempting to find some coffee, I thought of all the people who had walked along the streets I then meandered through. I thought of a young Vincent Van Gogh, walking down the street by our hostel just after getting off work, towards some café or bar with a pocket full of tip money and thousands of brilliant ideas running through his head. I was captivated by thoughts like these throughout the morning, until the group was ready for our next destination—Antwerp, Belgium.

We took a train to Antwerp, a student and shopping city in the North of the country, and arrived at around noon. We spent the day walking along the cobblestone streets of the city, and enjoying Antwerp’s many cafés and restaurants. A friend of one of my travel companions acted as our “travel guide” for the day. He had lived in the city since a few months prior, and sort of knew his way around, though most of the information he told us sounded more or less like “Uh, this building is important… but I don’t remember why.”

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the city a lot, and had no qualms about knowing nothing about the city two and a half hours after arriving in it. After all, that is what Wikipedia is for. We left Antwerp and headed back to Brussels to spend the night talking, perusing through bars and clubs, and ultimately getting in touch with the city and each other in the process.

After sleeping for about four or five hours, I awoke and prepared for the train ride home, feeling tired and disillusioned, yet pretty satisfied about the way the trip went. But, after returning home, I thought about the things Potts had said about doing too much too fast. Suddenly, it seemed that the whole trip had dissolved into one long stretch of scattered memory, with no real physical location to attach them to. I found myself forgetting what church was in what town, and which restaurant we ate at was located in each town. It was a mildly depressing realization, and I resented my lack of attention to each place immediately.

It seems Mr. Potts has a great point, but surely he had to find out the hard way as well, so I think I will give it another try. I hope that next time, I don’t forget the things Rolf Potts, and other travelers like him, have said along the way. Let me paraphrase: Don’t try to do too much, because it will end up feeling like you didn’t do anything at all.

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Okay, so to anyone who has been reading my past entries, I owe you an apology. From looking over my past posts, I’ve realized that I have failed horribly in my attempt to capture the true essence of this place. I feel I have at least loaned some insight into my situation, but this place, this physical point in the world, longitude and latitude and all that man-made junk, is an entirely different story.

Up until this point, the words to truly describe the ways in which this city has brought me to the brink of tears on more than one occasion, have escaped me. I won’t go into to some deluded, water downed passage about how this place is beyond words, because, well, it isn’t beyond words, I have just failed to use the correct words to give you, the reader, whoever you are, a true depiction of what this city is, and how it become what it is, and, in turn, how it has effected me; until now.

Nijmegen is not an industrious city and, as far as I can gather, relies almost entirely on the services sector of the market for employment and commerce. When I say services, I include education, and healthcare, along with normal services such as small businesses and the like. The city is fairly small, about 160,000 inhabitants, which still seems like a lot to me, but in the overall scale of things, it is pretty small. In 2005, it celebrated its 2000^th year in existence, making it the oldest city in The Netherlands (though this is disputed by a city in the Southern part of the country, Maastricht).

On Feb. 22, 1944, allied troops bombed the city, mistaking it to be the nearby German city of Kleve. The bombardment left more the half of the city center in ruins, and took the lives of more than 750 people. Sept. 17, 1944, in an attempt to gain ground on the Nazis, and to prevent them from blowing up bridges on the Rhine River and its tributaries (including the River Waal, around which Nijmegen is situated), the allied mission named “Operation Market Garden,” was put into action. On the 20^th, the allies captured Nijmegen and the Waalbrug. For these reasons, as well as others, Nijmegen was a very notable city during WWII.

But there is something more to this city than what a Wikipedia page can tell you. This city and its inhabitants have been required to take an attitude of being unbeatable. No matter what happens to the city, they always bounce back, and have been doing so for over 2000 years. This city’s ability to bounce back from tragedy and hardship has astounded me.

It is like nothing I have ever experienced. This city inspires me to the point where I feel as if nothing can bring me down. It is hard to let little problems bother me when I have this city around me as a tangible example of all that a group of people can overcome when put to the test. Still, it seems bad luck may have a habit of finding itself in Nijmegen. Think about it—the city was in neutral territory during the war, yet it was the first city to be taken when the Nazis invaded, and then, after they had been occupied by the Nazis for four long years, they were bombed to hell by the side they thought was going to help them.

Then, as if to put the proverbial cherry on top, it was the site of an enormous battle six months after it was bombed into oblivion. This five-year span of bad luck seems to still reverberate throughout the city, but even so, the citizens of Nijmegen bounce back, perpetually it seems.

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Harrison George

My name is Harrison George and I have a confession to make. I like Emporia. A lot. I know it’s not popular to say such things: Emporia has been a punching bag for college towns for the last few decades. Most of Kansas sees Emporia as a glorified gas station between Kansas City and Wichita. That’s definitely how I saw it before I came here. I predicted I would be just another commuter student, packing up every weekend for a more exciting town.

But over the last four years I have learned to view Emporia in a better light. I stopped focusing on what Emporia didn’t have and started noticing what it did. And now, my last year here, I’ve become a full fledged advocate for Emporia. And that brings us about up to speed I think.  I’ve started my last year at college and I’m already wondering what life will be like living outside the city limits. I’ve taken life in Emporia for granted these last few years, without even knowing it. And now that it’s almost over, I’ve started taking it more seriously.

I recently had the pleasure of traveling across the country with one of my best friends. The road trip began in Seattle, WA, where my sister lives. My friend and I spent 6 days driving back to Kansas through Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Nebraska. We explored the country, took in the sights, and ate at a few amazing roadside diners. It seems every time I travel to new places I wind up discovering more about where I’m from than where I am.

After more than a week and a half away from my home, I realized how much I missed the comfort of familiarity. New places are great, but after it was over nothing sounded better than my own bed in my apartment.

When I returned to Emporia and Kelsey Ryan came to me about writing a blog for The Bulletin’s Web site, I knew exactly what I would write about – Life in Emporia. Life in Kansas. Life in the Midwest.

They always say write what you know, and boy do I know about life in the Midwest. It’s more than just where I was born in raised, it shaped me into the person I am today. I am a man of the plains. I have the ideals and the mindsets of a true Midwesterner, and I couldn’t be prouder.

So I invite you to join me as I travel through my last year in Kansas and I try to experience everything that is truly unique to the Midwest. It might not be full of big city adventure, celebrity run-ins, or constant partying, but that’s alright with me. This is my home.

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“The honeymoon’s over, I suppose.” I jokingly told my friend Erik, rain covering every inch, or sorry, centimeter (got to be European, you know… of any other country besides the U.S…), of our bodies as we walked home from the “after-orientation” party on the Waalkade, the riverfront district of bars in Nijmegen.

We were walking due to a series of unfortunate events, culminating in the decommission of my bike, and my first close encounter with Nijmegen’s finest. This story, I’m afraid, would take far too much to explain thoroughly, and I feel it really would not make a difference in the end. So, therefore, I believe it will suffice to include the results—bike wrecked, body and clothes soaked, and a long walk home.

I meant the statement as a joke, an attempt to take a light-hearted approach to the fact that the part of this trip that consisted entirely of food, beer, and fun (preferably in that order) was probably over. Classes had started, the year’s first homework had been tied to the proverbial saddle bag of every student until they resembled a pack mule on two wheels, and there was an air of settling in for the long haul.

It wasn’t necessarily a sad occasion, aside from the situation in which the statement was made. On the contrary, school meant an opportunity to learn about this country in a way completely unlike that of the first couple of weeks, wherein learning was done in the “field,” as it were. The learning that began with the start of classes, to me, seems equally essential to the task of grasping the true heart and soul of this country. Different perspectives from the point of view of others were highly rewarding, even in the first lesson.

I feel I should take a quick moment and explain the differences between school in the U.S, or at least at Emporia, and school in the Netherlands. At Radboud, classes meet once a week for seven or fourteen weeks, depending on the class. The classes usually consist almost entirely of class discussion of reading materials and assignments from the previous week. Oral examinations, presentations, and class participation translate into a large part of the final grade, so talking in class, one way or another is the top priority.

This is perhaps much the same as at Emporia State, however, the difference is that most of my classes count class participation and oral presentations at about 80% of the final grade. This seems, at least to me, a bit higher than at home. The advantage of only meeting once a week is a ridiculous amount of free time in which to explore the city more thoroughly, or study… I suppose. For instance, I only have class on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Wednesday being the only day on which I have more than one class. This is helpful because I have ample time to read the assignments for my classes, and still have the proper amount of available concentration for the more “hands-on” part of my education in Nijmegen.

Even though classes have been very interesting thus far, I still feel as if I would much rather be out in the world, taking it all in, learning by way of exploration and personal discovery. Don’t get me wrong, learning in a classroom setting is obviously a very effective way to gain knowledge through conservative means, and I have just stated that I find it essential to the whole overhanging process of experiencing another country.

However, there are, what I would call other, sometimes more effective ways of learning about real subjects with real people who are really dealing with the problems currently– discussing the state of the monarchy in Spain with two Spaniards from Madrid, or police corruption in Eastern Europe with a Romanian and a Polish guy, just to name a couple. Neither of these conversations took place in any classroom, as the term is commonly defined, but I still feel as though I learned more from them than I could have in any sort of conventional classroom or school setting. I am not calling for the disbanding of schools or anything ridiculous like that, all I am saying, is that I feel as if actually attending classes is taking away from knowledge I could be gaining about the rest of the world and the people in it. Maybe Mr. Twain can help me out on this—

“I never let my schooling get in the way of my education.”

There. All I wanted to say, in clear, precise terms that are understandable for all. Gee, maybe learning about Mark Twain in a classroom really could help me in the real world…

But still, I think Marky Mark is right… There are some parts of every class that I feel are pointless in the grand scheme of things. Worksheets and 200 word response papers, these things should not be brought into a classroom simply to make sure the students are reading the material they are supposed to be reading—this is college, the pinnacle of higher learning and all that jazz, and yet, there are still some people in academia that feel as though they have to “catch” the students not reading the material or critically analyzing it for themselves.

Obviously this quote isn’t calling for the death of formal education. It seems to just call for the death of any form of formal education that does little or nothing to expand the students knowledge of the subject. Most people are in college because they are passionate about the subject they are pursuing. These people ARE reading, ARE reflecting on the material and ARE deciding what it really means in context. All the rest, the people those worksheets and response papers were made for—leave them for the dogs. If they aren’t taking initiative, then they don’t really want to be there. Case closed. Thanks Sammy.

At least that is the hope I cling to.

Anyway, somewhere in my tirade I hoped to convey the duality of my education this semester. And hopefully, for my sake, two halves equal, or at least resemble, a whole.

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In the nineteen and early twentieth centuries, New York City experienced a boom in immigration that brought about the mixture and infusion of the various cultures brought to the city from the “old country.” This “melting pot,” as it has come to be known, spread throughout the rest of the country as the United States grew and evolved. Many ancestors of Americans today passed through places like Ellis Island in NYC and Angel Island in L.A., in search of freedoms and the pursuit of “The American Dream.”

During the past two weeks, the city of Nijmegen and the ISN (International Student Network) have become a virtual melting pot of sorts. A few days ago, I ate a dinner in which each of the 20 members of my mentor group (a group of international students with two Dutch mentors), representing ten or fifteen countries, brought a dish that was typical food of their culture. So, dinner consisted of pierogi, a Polish dish similar to fruit turnovers, only with meat and cheese instead of fruit; tortilla de patatas, a Spanish dish which is their version of an omelet with fried potatoes, and of course, a selection of exotic Latvian, Hungarian, and Polish alcohols. I added my own touch by bringing a “dish” that surprisingly few of the Europeans I have met have had—the good old-fashioned American staple, the infamous, “P.B. & J.”

Sunset on the North Sea. Eric Hemphill/The Bulletin.

Anyway, this dinner, though on the surface appearing to be just a dinner between new friends, was more complex to me than that. Every person in the group introduced their dish with a certain degree of excitement and energy about the opportunity to share a little part of the culture they left behind when they came to Nijmegen. It made me proud to be a part of this version of man-kind; that these people were together, enjoying the company of others in this neo-melting pot of sorts, wherein every experience, however enjoyable or momentarily uncomfortable, or even down right ridiculous, is a brilliant opportunity to learn and grow and adapt. Somewhere along the line, it changes a person.

I felt a certain degree of haughtiness about the whole situation. I felt that old nostalgia kick in, reminding me of where I was and the situation I had gotten myself into. I was reminded of all the paperwork, the bureaucratic, forgive me, bullshit, that I had to wade through to get to this point—sitting in a kitchen, surrounded by people talking together in a language not native to them, as if they were old friends, eating good food, and learning what it means to be alive in a place like this. I felt the burning desire to learn more, to drink more, to eat more…. Anything to prolong this moment in time. Maybe it was this desire…or maybe it was Polish vodka reminding me it was there… either way, I got the point.

Eric Hemphill/The Bulletin.

The remainder of the week leading up to classes was very enjoyable. I biked the city with friends, sampled good beers, ate like a king, laughed, learned, and discovered more than I thought possible. This city; this country; all the people I have met; everything has fit together to construct a new, more hopeful version of my reality. A reality that allows me to see the negative through a positive scope, because, no matter what happens during the day, no matter how horrible or trying everything gets, at dusk, there is always the opportunity for good drinks and good food with good friends in a place that has become a haven for me; a kind of promised land that I have been searching for… figuratively speaking, of course. This, to me, has been the most important discovery during my short time here so far—that the tangible, nearly hedonistic act of relaxing with good friends and a good beer can overcome almost anything. I, too, like my ancestors many generations prior, am searching for some kind of American dream. Though my ancestors searched for it in the possibility offered by the United States, I will search for it in the possibilities not available in the U.S. The possibilities that lie at the point where cultures mesh together into something new; something profound. All things considered… I like it here. To say the least.

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The River Waal. Eric Hemphill/The Bulletin.

So I have been writing and re-writing this first entry for some time, and I cannot seem to produce something that I feel explains the emotions I am going through fully. I have been over and over it in my head, and I just don’t think our language, being imperfect as all forms of communication are, includes the words to describe some things. This being one of those cases, I will have to make due with what I am given in the way of the written word. Here are the facts:

Nine very long days ago, I boarded a plane with my friend Andrew Thomas. We flew twelve hours, including a layover in beautiful Newark, NJ, and landed in Amsterdam, Netherlands, at approximately 7 p.m. Central European Summer Time. This time zone is about seven hours ahead of Central Standard Time, meaning our bodies registered our arrival as being somewhere around midnight on Friday, Aug. 14.

It took sometime to get from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport to the central train station in the heart of Amsterdam. Arriving there was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. The city is so full of energy, even at seven in the morning, that it more than made up for two exhausted yet wide-eyed Americans’ lack of proper beauty sleep.

According to the map on the Web site of the Amsterdam Renaissance Hotel, which Andy’s father graciously booked for us, the walk to the hotel from the train station was short and fairly straightforward.

However, for two college kids on their first trip to Europe, it seems things are seldom this easy. We walked through the streets and canals surrounding the train station for nearly 30 minutes before a striking realization dawned on us—we were lost in the biggest city either of us had ever been to, 30 minutes after arriving. We must have made a circle around the hotel five or six times before we finally started to panic and began to ask directions from anyone who didn’t look as though they would have “Shanghaied” us on the spot.

Eventually, with the help of an extremely nice tour guide, we found our hotel and settled in for a quick nap that turned into a kind of jet-lagged coma. We slept for about seven hours before getting up and wondering the city for a few glimpses in to the supposed soft drug capital of the world.

At around nine o’clock the next morning, after lying awake from around 4 a.m., we dressed and enjoyed the best breakfast either of us had ever had. We packed our 100 lbs or so of luggage each and set off back to the train station to catch the one-hour train ride across the county to our home for the next 5 months—Nijmegen, Netherlands.

Nijmegen. Eric Hemphill/The Bulletin.

The train ride was highly efficient and the scenery throughout gave us a nice indication of the landscape of the country. In a lot of ways, it resembled Kansas – rolling hills and farmlands mixed with the occasional town or village. A kind of inaudible melody erupts from the countryside and quaint European farming villages.

We arrived in Nijmegen at around two o’clock CEST (that’s 7 a.m. CST, for those of you keeping track), and were greeted by members of the International Student Network here at Radboud University Nijmegen. From there we were escorted to campus to stand in lines for two or three hours until we were finally given our keys and allowed to go to our rooms… I was, in a word, exhausted.

Over the next week, the number of emotions I felt were more than in any other point in my life. Fear, resentment, elation, homesickness, anticipation and curiosity are just a few. While these emotions swirled in my head, the rest of the International students and myself were carted all over the city that week and were shown all the aspects of Nijmegen and the Netherlands which were important to get a handle on in order to live in this city. A city tour, a pub crawl, a trip to Amsterdam and a beach in Zanvoort and a weekend trip to the farming community of Putten were all included in the festivities of the orientation week.

We were being taxied around so much that there was not much time to think about home, or much of anything for that matter, so the emotions subsided to the back of my mind while I took in the sites, and had what was quite literally the time of my life.

There were moments, however, in which the nostalgia of the situation truly hit me. I had actually done it. I was in another country, learning so much so fast that I was fairly certain my head would explode if any more was crammed into it. Different people with different cultures and different languages all came together and bonded under pressures of being in a new place, seemingly completely alone. These people formed instant friendships despite historical animosity towards one another, or the difficulties of language and social dissimilarity.

This, to me, was the biggest accomplishment this week—the fact that these people from all different backgrounds and cultures could all come together and create bonds that I hope will last for a very long time. Sure, it may have been just one big party, but it was the most celestial party I’ve even been to. I don’t know if there is a god, but if there is, I imagine this is how he meant for humans to act towards one another. Learning and teaching with people you have only known for a handful of hours. No bickering, no animosity, just uncommon people finding common ground in their similarities and differences. This was the start of what I sincerely hope will be the greatest time in my life.

-Eric Hemphill

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