It was two years ago. I was on the airplane to come to Emporia. I flew on Northwest Airlines. Crews on the airplane were obviously American, however, I could not understand what language they were using. It made me feel scared and disappointed at the same time because I spent 10 years on my English in Japan, and I had much confidence in my English before I got on the airplane heading to America.

Once I arrived in Emporia, I went to Country Mart to see the American products available. Whenever I travel abroad, I always visit the local real estate agent and local supermarkets. Can you guess the reason? If I know the average housing price in the area, I can tell the average living standard. From what I could gather, the average housing price here in Emporia is between $50,000 and $120,000 for one big house. That is about one fourth the price compared to houses in Japan, even though houses in Japan much smaller. I could assume the living expense in Emporia would not be bad.

The local super market is a source of entertainment for me because there are so many different products which I cannot buy in Japan. For example, there are so many varieties of meats in Country Mart, though they do not have many kinds of fishes at all. Japan is a small island, so we eat fish a lot. Emporia is obviously located in the middle of the continent, so I assumed most of people do not eat a lot of fish. I thought eating raw fishes like Sushi is out of the question in Emporia.

I had always heard that obesity is one of the biggest problems in the States. Though American foods are very tasty, they are usually bad for our health, and those foods are extremely cheap here in Emporia. I was surprised that one giant bottle of soda at Country Mart is about 88 cents. In Japan, you can find the half size bottle of soda for $3.5, so people in Japan do not drink soda as much as American people do. I think if the junk foods’ price increases by triple, the obesity problem will be quickly solved.

            After visiting Country Mart I walked around the campus for a while. I found whenever I met American people, they always asked, “How are you doing?”, even if I did not know them. People in Japan never talk to strangers. I was surprised by the friendliness of American people.

Though I enjoy the friendliness of Emporians, I know I still have some things to learn about American expressions. When one of my new American friends said “What’s up, man?” I just looked up the sky and said “There is blue beautiful sky!” I obviously didn’t have any idea what the real meaning of the expression was, haha.

So this was the first day of being in the United States of America. Coming to the U.S. was my dream since I was a child. I was very excited and scared at the same time. Most of the new international students might think the same. Welcome to the United States of America, especially here in Emporia!!

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Group photo at the weekend in Putten oh so long ago...

Today, I took a bus to Central Station and saw a dear friend get on a shuttle home. As I bussed home, it hit me—it is almost over. The quaint little Dutch town on the German border that I have come to call home for the last few months will soon be miles and miles away from me, as my journey in life continues.

I will never forget the places I have been and the things I have done. I will never forget the emotions I felt throughout the whole process here. The joy, depression, homesickness, elation, confusion, and general appreciation for the way the world works. But most of all, I will never, without a single doubt, EVER forget the love. Before I came here, I wasn’t sure whether or not I thought love truly existed, or if it was just the way humans processed some kind of overload of joy. But now, right now, as I sit in my room in the nearly empty Vossenveld student housing complex waiting for Andy to get back so we can plan dinner, now, I know it’s there. Love is here, if not in the air somehow, at least inside me somewhere. I know that I love this place, and I love so many of the people I have met here, and I love travel, and exploration of the mind, or heart, or the world. I think I may lose this feeling over time, because time has a funny way of going about things, but I will certainly not forget it. Not forget how hard goodbyes are, or how easily new friends can become old friends in an instant, or over some undefined amount of time. I won’t forget the love, I promise you that.

So now, I sit alone and wait for a plane to take me back to the world I willingly left to find something… I’m still not sure what. But, I think that maybe I achieved that goal for myself. I found that something. Some knowledge I didn’t have before, about the world, or at least my world. So, then, for lack (as usual) of the ability to properly describe the highly complex process of human emotive responses, I will say the only thing left to say—my thank yous.

Thank you to my parents and family for helping me out in making this experience possible, without your support, it’s obvious to me this wouldn’t have happened. Thank you to the government for helping financially, though, of course, it wasn’t a hand out. But, still, I have been given the right to go discover the world if I want, and to have a right like that is not as common as you would think in today’s world. Thank you in advance to my friends back home for allowing this hiatus in our face to face relationship, and for picking up where we left off, as I assuredly hope you will let me do. Thank you to Emporia State for their steadfast commitment to international education, and allowing me to take part in something so incredible, even if it is only so to me. Thank you to the Bulletin, for allowing me to express, or at least try to express, my feelings and experiences throughout this whole process, I appreciated the chance to express myself via this blog—there is nothing truer to me that outright expression, and you made it possible. Thank you, likewise, to those who have read my posts throughout this semester—be you friend, family, or complete stranger—I am forever in your debt. Thank you to Andy, whose friendship and camaraderie throughout this entire semester was nothing short of a lifesaver, or at least something constant to cling to. The blessing of being able to share something like this with another person gave me great comfort, and no doubt a lot of great times.

But most of all, the biggest thank you I feel I have to give, is to my fellow exchange students at Radboud this semester. It is because of you that this experience was as great as it was. Thank you to all of my friends here, for so many things that I can’t even really explain. Thank you for the laughs, the good times, the tidbits of insight into your lives before this semester, and the life we made together here in Nijmegen. I swear upon God, or my heart, or whatever else, that I will NEVER forget how you made my experience here the greatest of my life, whether it was by staying up till 5 in the morning with me and waxing poetic, or talking sports, or simply smiling at me in passing, thank you so, so much. No words can express exactly how thankful I am to have met all of you, and I truly hope our paths will cross again down the road somewhere. But, even if they don’t, we remain connected because of this experience, and in that way, we will always be together. I hope you remember me as I will remember you, and I hope that your lives are everything you want them to be, no matter what goals you have. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and my mind, and my soul. Thank you.

So, I guess this is where I leave you. And, surprisingly I have come so far since my first post—physically, but more so mentally. I have come so far and yet, I have no choice but to leave you the only way I know how, the same way I found you. I am the same fearful, curious, out-going yet reserved college kid I was when I wrote my first post, which seems so long ago. Yet the only fitting way to say goodbye, as I have found out by saying more goodbyes in the past week than I ever want to do again, is to just say it, and attempt to put an asterisk behind it to explain all of the incomprehensible and inexpressible emotions attached to the word.

So, therefore– adios, papa, farvel, arrivederci, zbohem, doei, auf wiedersehen, slán leat, au revoir, God be with ye, and, of course, last but not least…

Goodbye*

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Friends and I in Porto de Soller.

You ever notice how people, when on a beach vacation or simply traveling to a body of water, almost impulsively throw rocks into said body water? It’s like we have to throw the rocks, we have no choice. We need to throw the rocks to remind ourselves how incredibly small we are. To toss a one inch long rock into a sea thousands of miles long puts everything into perspective. The size of the rock in our hand, and the feel of it just before it leaves us forever into the abyss of blue water. Our size, the size of the water in comparison. It all happens subconsciously. We don’t literally think about why we are throwing the rock, we just do it. Maybe we throw it because we know that the tide will push it back towards the beach, and that one day, far in the future, it may be possible to pick up that same rock, on that same beach, and toss it 50 feet out into the same water we tossed it into all those years ago. Okay, it may seem a very small feat to throw a stone, a pebble even, into a vast body of water, but before you go thinking this entry is too depressing for you, consider this metaphor I have stolen from the novel, “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close,” and then adapted to use in my own context.

Imagine that you and I are on a beach, say, in the Mediterranean, and I pick up a stone, one stone among the thousands that cover the rocky beaches of the Balearic Islands. Now, imagine me, looking strait into your eyes as I hand you the stone, and speaking these words: “Throw it as far or as near as you want, just throw it.” You look down at the stone in your hand, and you notice how light it is, how far you could throw it. You look up at the endless sea. You wind up and chuck the rock 100 ft, into the water, and you don’t even see where it hits the water because the sun is blinding you and you’re focusing on your follow through. And I look at you, and say, “Congratulations, you have changed the world”.

Maybe we jumped, maybe we didn't!

One stone, thrown from one hand, on one beach, on one island, in one sea changes the entire make-up of the world. Though it may not be a monumental change, it is still change. And besides, nine times out of ten, any monumental change that a person makes to this world is for the worse, not the better.

You know, in a way, I think that’s why we, humans, travel, at least I’ve come to realize that’s why I travel. To make a change in this world, no matter how small. To step off a plane in Paris and immediately hug the first person I see. To smile at everyone in Prague and sincerely hope that it brightens their day. These things may not settle any health care bills, or bring a country out of a recession. But hey, what reason do you have to not smile at the next person you see? Or hug them? Well, maybe not hug them, I don’t want to be responsible for any lawsuits and/or beating … Anyway, the point is not to save the world. I’m not saving the world, I’m just throwing rocks into the ocean.

So, as I sat on a cliff over-looking the Mediterranean Sea on the island of Mallorca, watching the sunset into the distant horizon, as the yellows meshed with the dark and light blues, and greens and whites, I thought about the world, and myself, and why exactly I wanted to come to Europe in the first place. Why in the hell did I spend so much time and effort and money in order to come to a country where I didn’t speak the language, and knew only one other person on the entire continent? It is because of this, I thought. It’s because of the sun. It’s because a picture may be worth a thousand words, but seeing the real thing is worth billions, nay, trillions. It’s because of the people, all the people, whether I like them or not. But most of all, it’s because I would throw a million rocks if given the chance, and frankly, with the wind at my back, and the sun on my face and great friends around, I see no reason why this whole semester could even remotely be called a mistake. Money is money, life is life, I’m throwing rocks at the sea until the day I die.

Sunset at Deia.

Sunset at S'Arenal.

Water at Sa Calabra.

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Ah, Thanksgiving… I can’t believe it has already been here and passed. It snuck up on me, really. And with it, the thought that I wouldn’t be home to spend the day gorging myself on select delicacies prepared by aunts and unwilling uncles till I was fuller than the oven and fridge had been not two hours before, and until some random game of football whisked me off to the dreamland only a Thanksgiving dinner can take you to.

This was the first real moment of true, inescapable homesickness I have felt since I left 3 and a half months ago. I mean, there have been little instances when I felt a twinge of longing to be at home, sitting comfortably in my parents’ living room, watching some wildcat football and eating chili, but the moment would pass quicker than it just took to explain it. But yesterday, when I woke for class in the morning, something felt a little different. Like this chapter of my life was starting to close just as I really realized it was beginning.

The Dutch, obviously, do not celebrate Thanksgiving, however, around this time of the year, December 5^th to be exact, they celebrate a slightly tweaked version of Christmas which I was privy to recently.

The celebration of Sinterklaas is hundreds of years old, and based on numerous factors concerning Dutch History. It is similar to Christmas in that there is a Santa Claus figure, Saint Nicholas. But unlike our jolly “bowl full of jelly” Chris Kringle, Sinterklaas is actually quite skinny, and could probably pass as a Catholic Bishop with a flair for fashion and bright colors. His helpers, not elves, mind you, are normal sized people with black faces.

Imagine my confusion when, having no prior knowledge of this holiday, I biked to the grocery store about a week ago and saw white teenagers with black face paint on, giving candy out to children while some delusional dude who thought he was the Pope gave out gifts. The whole scene baffled me until I got home and asked one of my Dutch friends what in the hell was going on…

He explained the story of Sinterklaas, and my mind was appeased for a bit. I am all for weird holiday traditions whose meaning is not quite clear due to generations of change and adaptation, but this one, frankly, struck me as a little bit weird. I mean, a fake Pope, who lives in Spain, and travels with a posse of black people, and who, if a child is bad one year, puts said child in a bag, takes a switch and beats the tar out of him? Really? And besides all that, those pseudo-elves scared the hell out of me.

Even now, when I see them in the grocery store, tending to little child and spreading general cheer to all, even then, I am scared of them. I really don’t know what’s weirder, that “6 to 8” Caucasians can paint their faces black and imitate an African without a civil rights group getting upset, or that I am scared of them. I guess that is just another of the cultural differences between the two countries. I have to believe that if this holiday was celebrated in America, there would be some serious lawsuits involved.

But, alas, to each his own. Sinterklaas is a big deal here, and as such I am willing to ignore the oddity of it and just enjoy it. Besides, it isn’t as if America doesn’t have really weird celebrations and holiday traditions (see: “Black Friday”, or the overall concept of “Thanksgiving”). So I will attempt to enjoy myself and have a happy/merry Sinterklaas, and I hope you do the same.

P.S.- For more info on Sinterklaas, check out this video, it’s great and I think explains it better than I did. And it’s pretty hilarious.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCUHTDrca4s&feature=related

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Group photo in front of Trevi fountain

Simply put, Rome has captured and captivated me more than any other place I have ever been to, seen a picture of, or ever dreamed of going to. As soon as our flight touched down and I first stepped out into the brilliant mosaic of scattered lights and darkness that was the Roman dusk, I knew this was a place I would like. What didn’t know was that this was a place I would fall in love with.

Rome is a city of firsts. Imagine the first breathe of Italian air. The first cappuccino you drink in the first authentic Italian café you see. The first encounter with a restaurant worker who insists that the other restaurants around are full of Pinocchios whose collective nose continues to grow with every sentence. But not him, oh no, not him.

Imagine the first glimpse of the awe-inspiring, beautiful, no-picture-could-ever-capture-its-true-nature Coliseum. Ditto for the Roman forum, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s Square, The Spanish steps, Trevi fountain, Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, hanging opulently over the heads of mesmerized tourists within the immaculate Sistine Chapel, their necks permanently thrown back, mouths agape; Raphael’s School of Athens- similar effect. The first pizza, pasta, gelato, gypsy encounter (in that order), sidewalk purse salesmen (who magically disappeared whenever the policia appeared). Imagine all this in rapid succession like lighting off a string of firecrackers. Oh, and the most chic McDonald’s I’ve ever laid eyes on– never thought I’d be taking pictures of a McDonald’s when I left for Europe.

Inefficient stairs in Vatican City

In between all of the iconic, must-see attractions the city has to offer, though I have the strong suspicion that I didn’t even scratch the surface of what the city truly has to offer in terms of historically significant sites, after all of those, there are the stories unique to our trip and our trip alone. One involving a, in my opinion, too long for comfort conversation  at four in the morning with some Italian soldiers carrying what I was sure was enough firepower to gun down any suspicious character passing through, or else anyone who engaged in a too long for comfort conversation with them. Another involving a group of Navy Seals who not only proved the metaphorical implication of the phrase “loose lips sink ships”, but also may have proved the physical implications as well, after buying the entire bar 2-3 rounds each, and confirming conspiracy theories I never thought a member of the armed forces would believe. Yet another involving a native of Spain who kindly invited all of us to visit him in Sicily after my friend miraculously learned to speak Spanish without showing any prior knowledge of the language. These stories, I am certain will be the ones that last. And, when added together with the fact that we had these adventures while seeing some of the most famous historical and artistic landmarks on the Earth, made my Roman adventure not only one of the greatest weekends since I have been in Europe, but perhaps the greatest weekend of my life. That being said, I’m sure there were things about the city I didn’t particularly like, but, at this moment, they all seem to have escaped my memory.

Roman Forum

St. Peter's Square

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You know how there are some moments where everything is just great? Moments when even though there are innumerable things going wrong, or just not going the way you want, you still can’t help but smile? This week was a series of those moments, intermittent with moments that I sincerely hope will never be dismissed from my memory with time or age or what have you.

The week started off fairly normal, until around Wednesday. On Wednesday, everything got a little bit troublesome. See, we (meaning Andy and I) had planned a trip to Dublin, Ireland weeks ago with around ten other international students from Radboud. I had been looking forward to this trip basically since we booked our plane tickets because when I decided to study abroad, Ireland was one of the places I put on my “must-see” list—cheesy, I know. The main reasons for the placement were pretty straightforward- one, that I am half Irish on my mother’s side, and the other is that Dublin has a extraordinarily rich history in Literature, producing some of my favorite writer’s—James Joyce being the most prominent among them because, well, he’s James Joyce.

Therefore, up until Wednesday, the Dublin trip was always in the back of my mind, something to get excited for. But on Wednesday, Andy and I discovered we had a problem. Our flight left at 8:05 from Weeze airport, outside of Dusseldorf, Germany, which is about 45 minutes by car from Nijmegen. Because we had to arrive fairly early to get though security, there would be no train leaving from Nijmegen early enough to get us there on time. The solution to this problem, which I can say with all confidence, really, really, sucked, was that we had to take a shuttle to Weeze at 3:30 in the morning on Thursday, and then stay in the airport until our flight left at eight. We understandably did not get much sleep before the shuttle left, or in the terminal after we arrived (you would think they would make those places more suitable for sleeping). So, between the lack of sleep, and the exhaustion of travel, we arrived at our hostel in Dublin in a state of semi consciousness. We were woken up, however slightly, by the fact that we had made it, and were now free to enjoy the city, which, I can say with no doubts is my favorite city in the world.

But, as I said in the beginning, this initial sensation of being in such a wonderful place wore off, however slightly, due to extenuating circumstances. For one, of the ten people who said they were going to Dublin at the same time as we were, only two actually came. Also, at some point before or after leaving for the trip, I was bitten by some type of unknown poisonous insect on the leg, and therefore, by Friday, was having trouble walking, which does not help with any site-seeing endeavors I wished to involve myself in of. Also, when we arrived back in Nijmegen, parts of my bike which were previously attached had mysteriously become unattached. This last concern is really a mute point because this morning, when I woke up, my bike had mysteriously disappeared altogether into thin air, ending the fledgling reign of the second bike I’ve owned since arriving in The Netherlands.

BUT, and there is a but, as I said in the beginning of this entry, throughout all of this, I could not help but to smile. Even though my leg was throbbing, and Dublin was not the party we had envisioned, and the fact that exhaustion was carried along to all of the sites we visited like heavy baggage, throughout all this stuff, I smiled. I smiled because I couldn’t believe I was there. I smiled because I wanted to sit in the Temple Bar with a pint Guinness and a plate of fish and chips, and never leave that spot. I smiled because of all the things I could have done and actions I could have taken, smiling seemed the best option thinkable. I smiled, and still smile for a million other reasons I can’t express and which don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. The important thing to remember throughout this entire post is that I smiled. And, I know most of the problems I just told you about are trivial and more inconveniences than real problems, so it is a lot easier for me to sit back and say “just smile” when life inconveniences creep up and bite you, but I promise, if you do, or if you at least try, all those troubles will be put into perspective. If at some point you can sit back, cross your arms, and show the world those pearly whites, all those things you were vexed about a moment ago will fade into the background, individual ships on an ocean of space and time. After all, if life is all there is, then you’ve got it all. So, as I wrote in my last post, and will continue to write until arthritis makes it impossible to do so– smile.

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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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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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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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“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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