One semester of awesome

Well, I survived my first semester of college. It wasn't too hard! Here are some of the highlights and things I've been up to, in no particular order:

- I wrote a research paper about women in the sagas and how they are portrayed as powerful, a character type that ought to exist more today. I didn't think I was the sort to read into gender roles, but apparently I am. I am still struck by the images of Gudrun, Brynhild, Gunnhilda, and Aslaug – powerful, revengeful women, yet still sympathetic characters (not antagonists like the Wicked Witch of the West or Maleficent) and heroines in their own right. And it really did leave me wondering why I always pretended to be male characters when I was little and played pretend. Knights, heroes, captains... with the exception of Eowyn (and I would have rather pretended to be Legolas or Aragorn when it came right down to it), I was at a loss for strong female role models in popular fiction. It certainly didn't bother me at the time, and no one ever told me “Put down that sword, that's not a girl's toy!” But now I find it food for thought nonetheless.

This is yet another reason the Hunger Games series is so fantastic. A strong, emotionally stable warrior heroine helps her sweet but weak and dependent (boy)friend Peeta survive. (Hilarious and accurate article on this here.)

-I tried out for the UW women's ultimate team, Bella Donna, and joined them! It's been a lot of fun and I've learned a lot. It's also been pretty intense and hard to manage with also doing fencing. Fortunately, I've managed to keep my body in pretty good working repair and have had only minor issues with the arches of my feet and my back playing up like usual. It's always a trade-off between being in shape and wearing down one's body, though I'd rather get more than enough exercise than not enough.

-Fencing has gone well too. Since I have no experience with fencing and it's not as competitive, it's almost more of a social outlet. (Fortunately for me, since I definitely couldn't handle two sports like frisbee.) A lot of my favorite people are in fencing as well as this kid I'm dating oh wait I guess I should say “my boyfriend” now. He said I should write a blog post about him (egotistical, I know) but I don't know how I can do that without sounding all gushy and stupid. Oh well. Let it just be known that I am happy. Perhaps later when I'm more comfortable with writing about my personal life I'll tell you all about him.

-All of my priorities and things I thought were important to me changed. I thought I was going to college to figure out what subject fascinates me and to delve deep into whatever that is, but my favorite memories from the past semester are all very much social. I even have become less introverted and need more time with people. Favorite moments include 3 am talk with friends, getting to know people at the beginning of the semester, blanket forts in the basement, parties (which I hated last year, remember?), goofing off at fencing, dressing up for Halloween, sledding on Observatory Hill, and filming a group project with some very silly friends. I have time to figure out what I want to do, so this year is for shits and giggles and snowball fights. It's been a time very much of figuring out who I am now that I'm not living at home or in someone else's home in France, now that I have the confidence to be me and the freedom to do what I feel like doing and all the opportunity that comes with living on a very dynamic, exciting social campus. And apparently that person is a happy, somewhat impulsive, very active young woman by the name of Ikwe.

It's very strange to think about the year 2013 as a whole. I felt like life started over when I got to college, and I forget that I left France only 6 months ago. Studying abroad is a chapter of your life that gets to be very separate from everything else, almost like a whole different life. Coming to Madison, I had already been away from home for a year and yet I had just shut the door behind me on my experience in France, never intending to look back. Essentially, I came with nothing, knowing no one, having very few ties left to anything. And leaving Madison to come back to California, as I waited for the bus to take me to the airport, I realized that I have everything I could possibly want here. A lot can change in a semester. It's true that the years pass faster and faster as we get older, but to a certain extent this is counterbalanced by how much change there is in life at this age. In high school we don't see the years go by because they're all more or less the same, but 2012 and 2013 both had so much change that a new year seems like a new world.

I'm so pleased with where I am now that I'm having a problem I have never had before: I don't want anything to change and for once I'm not champing at the bit waiting for the year to pass. I didn't even want to make a decision about housing for next year because I just wanted to live with the exact same people in Cole again. This unprecedented contentment with the present, of course, doesn't mean I'm not excited for 2014: 2014 will have Israel, an awesome second semester, hopefully working at French camp and other summer shenanigans, and the first semester of sophomore year living on the Scandinavian Studies floor. I hope it will be even more awesome than the past semester has been. Cheers to the New Year! May the year ahead of you hold adventure, learning, laughter along with the occasional cathartic cry, serendipity and spontaneity, a healthy sense of romance, late night heart-to-hearts, good books, and good friends.

We're all bad at risk analysis

People are really bad at risk analysis. They are scared to take a plane or swim in the ocean but drive to work every day, though car accidents are pretty high up there on the list of causes of death and Wikipedia doesn't even include “plane crashes” or “eaten by sharks.”

But not only do we chose the wrong things to worry about, we also get the amount of worry wrong. “Better safe than sorry,” we say, and to a certain extent that's true. But the adage leaves something out: there is a downside to too much safety. After a certain point, we have to ask ourselves “Is it worth it? Are the downsides greater than the upsides?”

We all know by now that children need to play in dirt to develop healthy immune systems. Helicopter moms running around with hand sanitizer aren't actually doing their babies any favors. And what about giving your children independence? I didn't have a curfew, and the fact that my parents treated me as responsible meant I never did anything bad with it. I did plenty of other stupid things with my independence unrelated to curfews, but I learned from them, and feel a lot more prepared for real life because of that.

Risk is a part of life. Without accepting that fact, you can't do much of anything. You can't learn to drive, go backpacking, travel, or even step outside – who knows when a meteorite might just crush you, or you might “catch a cold.” (Ahem: “getting chilled or wet is not a cause of common colds” thank you webmd.) You always run a risk of dying, whether from illness or murder or the rare freak accidents people warn you about. Since you know you're mortal, you may as well have fun during the one life you have. By this I don't mean that you ought to be reckless and fearless because you're going to die anyway so you might as well die young. I just mean that there's a balance between too safe and too reckless, and I think that most people are too far on the safe side and don't experience a lot of fun things just because they're more scared than they should be.

The reason I'm writing this is because people tell me all the time that I shouldn't go walking or running at night by myself. I know that they are just concerned for my safety and I appreciate that they're trying to look after me, so this is not meant as a rant against them. But I have a lot of problems with this advice: first of all, it's just really not that dangerous. I go running on the Lakeshore path which is dark and in the woods. I'd feel far less safe walking through a city at night. There are no mentally unstable hobos who hang out in the woods, though there are many on State Street (downtown Madison). The only people I encounter are other late-night runners and bikers, usually college students. Out of all the places I could be late at night – a frat party, walking downtown, with dangerously drunk people – I think alone in the woods is honestly pretty safe.

Secondly, I think it's wrong to pick on being alone. I've often had guys offer to walk me home or go running with me so I wouldn't be by myself. Unless it's someone I know very well, I tend to turn them down. It's much safer to be on your own than alone with one guy, especially if he's been drinking. Most rapes aren't committed by crazy people jumping out of the bushes and attacking late-night runners. About 2/3 of the time the rapist is someone the victim already knows – if you click through that link there are more interesting statistics on that. I'm not being stubbornly reckless by walking home alone, I'm being safe by refusing to let a guy walk me home.

And lastly, I don't want to let my life be ruled by fear. I don't want to not do as I please because I'm afraid of other people doing something bad to me. This is especially true because I feel that the danger is hyped up, that rape and murder stories are good media shock stories that generate a lot of emotion and stick in people's memories and get into our heads more than they should. (I defy you, media! Sincerely, a rebellious teenager.)

I also want to mention the danger in conflating “steps to take to be safe” with “victim-blaming.” If something bad happens, it won't be my fault – it would be the fault of the person who does it to me. I don't want to be one of the many people contributing to the idea that rape is the victim's fault if they were “being stupid” by not taking the proper precautions – walking alone at night, wearing provocative clothing, etc. That idea is disgusting and every woman has the right to do what she wants without being sexually assaulted. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't take precautions when we can if it's worth it.

So, I acknowledge that I could take more steps to be safe, steps which I think are unnecessary. The statistics are on my side that going running at night is a fairly low-risk pleasure of mine. Granted, there is some risk, and I choose to accept the risk that comes with late-night runs. Unfortunately, there are rapists out there. But I refuse to let them take away my enjoyment of the woods at night and the stars out at Picnic Point and the ice-cold air in my lungs. This is my life, and I’ll live it how I want to. And next time you want to look out for my safety, just tell me to never get in a car again.

College is awesome

I'm not writing anything because everything is perfect. What do you even write about when there's nothing wrong? I have noticed before that happiness is the emotion the least conducive to creativity. At the beginning of high school when I started to ground my life with marching band and things were looking up, I briefly mourned the demise of my dark poetry and melancholy artistic ways. Briefly, of course, because being happy is so much better than being sad, but it is a strange kind of shock when a part of your identity (being a writer) goes away.

I don't know why introspection should be negatively correlated with happiness. Perhaps it isn't relevant. Perhaps I'm confusing correlation and causation, and I just don't have the time to be introspective and I'm happy because I'm busy with things I enjoy. I don't know, and I can't bring myself to care either. The goal of life seems to be to find happiness, and I seem to have found it.

So since I don't have anything to complain about, and I feel bad for not writing for over a month, here comes the actual life update with as little introspection as ever happens with me. Classes are going quite well: I'm taking an interest group set of three classes about Vikings which comprises Swedish, folklore, and sagas (Norse mythology). Learning Swedish has been a reminder of how much I love learning languages and how it really is a talent of mine. I have to take linguistics next semester and figure out if this is what I want to study. I'm also taking Calc II, the most failed class in Madison with the worst professor in Madison. Surprisingly, I'm doing okay in that too. My first calc midterm was probably the first test I've successfully studied for in my life. Usually the studying doesn't happen, or I don't do enough of it for it to work.

That's enough about classes, since I haven't been focused on classes in the slightest. I've also been trying to win a competition with no one in particular to see how many extra-curriculars I can physically do. So far, this mostly involves either fencing or frisbee practice every night of the week, and sometimes both. Yes, I fence foil now! It's exactly as awesome as it sounds. And just because that clearly isn't enough exercise, I've been running along the beautiful Lakeshore path, and occasionally going rock climbing. I'd say this continues to support my previous hypothesis that exercise is one of the best things you can do to be happy.

Other than that, I hang out with people – wow, I have lots of really interesting friends! This is new and exciting! And I mean no offense to my dear old friends from high school when I say this, but I am simply astonished at how easy it is to meet fascinating people in college as opposed to, well, everywhere else, and how great it is to have friends from many different places (classes, sports, dorms, random encounters) who are different and wonderful and interesting all in their own ways. Gone are the days when I could only be friends with band geeks. Before, band was a good litmus test of compatibility: they were generally a more intelligent and interested bunch than those who weren't in band. But now, I meet awesome people on such a regular basis, I no longer even need ways of sorting people into “potential friends” and “the rest of those losers.”

What else... dorm life! I thought I would hate the dorms, because I like peace and quiet and need a lot of personal introvert time. I was concerned about having a roommate for that reason and because I could tell we were very different. But I love the dorms! I like my roommate and the fact that we are very different, because we get along wonderfully but don't talk so much that I can't have introvert-recharging time in my room. Almost from day one our floor bonded over everything and nothing, and we have the best atmosphere. Everyone leaves their doors open and we're all pretty much friends. The first couple weeks I kept thinking how much like summer camp it felt. Why did no one tell me that college is just like summer camp?

I assumed coming in that the first couple weeks would be hard, that it would take me awhile to find friends, and I'd question if it was going to be okay and why did I even decide to come here anyway. That's just normal, I assumed – it'll just be like an easier version of France. But that did not happen at all. From day one I felt at home here and knew I could be friends with these people. There were a few days in mid-September when I wondered when the euphoria would wear off. I assume euphoria isn't sustainable, that one day I'll realize it isn't as incredible as I thought it was and things will revert back to normal. That hasn't happened at all either.

I catch myself just grinning like an idiot as I walk to classes, thinking about what I'm studying, something funny a friend said, my plans for the weekend. Thinking about life, formerly an introspective and quiet process, just makes me smile uncontrollably now. It makes people smile back at me, which is funny. They look happy and bemused to see that I'm happy. Today I walked past someone who had pretty much the same goofy grin on his face that I did, and it just made me laugh, knowing I wasn't alone and wondering what he was so pleased about.

I'm also in love with Lakeshore, the dorm neighborhood I live in. We're on the far west side of campus, away from downtown and the loud drunken parties that Madison is notorious for, near the lake and the woods and great running paths. Of course, we can still go to the crazy parties, the difference is just that we get to come home to relative peace and quiet when we want to. All of Lakeshore is incredibly beautiful, and the smaller dorm sizes mean that people talk to each other more here. The one complaint I have about dorm life is the food. The dining hall options are not great. For the first few weeks I ate barely anything because nothing was appetizing and I was too excited to eat anyway. Now I've figured out that I can cook decent food in our basement kitchen when I want good food, and I know what the better options in the dining hall are when I don't want to cook. Cooking, of course, has also become a social event, just like everything else when you live with a bunch of awesome people.

Some nights, of course, you just need to sit and study in your room with a bowl of ramen, both because sometimes studying actually needs to happen and for social recharging. And that's fine, too. For awhile I had some bad FOMO (that's Fear of Missing Out), afraid that every minute I wasn't trying to forge new connections would be my eventual downfall, as everyone would have formed these great social groups and connections but me. Apparently, this is quite a common problem among college freshmen. You get over it, that's all. You get friends, you become secure in your new social environment, and it stops being as big of an issue. Tonight everyone is out at Freakfest, which is Madison's big Halloween shebang, while I'm embracing my claustrophobic crowd-hating instincts and sitting in my room writing and listening to excellent music.

I love life I love school I love people I love friends I love sports I love Madison and that is my life right now. I apologize for the lack of coherence and direction to this post; it is simply meant as an update so everyone knows I didn't die. And yes, I am realizing that it's a lot more difficult to blog when I don't have to for my internship and I'm far busier. Have a wonderful week, faithful readers!

It Gets Better

So I'm in college now. I guess this makes me officially old. You'll laugh at that, of course – not old, but in truth an independent adult. And of course, all the changes to my life right now mean that this blog is going to be changing as well. I no longer have the single theme of living abroad to focus on, nor do I have an internship that requires me to blog about my everyday life. Instead I'd like to write more about what already inspires me most – politics, culture, feminism, and people-watching (social observations!). Obviously I haven't hesitated to do so during this past year, and these posts have also been the most successful, with my most-read posts being, in order, I have a massive crush on humanity on the negativity of radical feminism, 5 things about feminism I agree with, my personal favorite The American Essence on American intellectualism, ambition, and competition (which I consider a summary of all my thoughts on living in France), and finally Charity, discussing how to rationally make the world a better place. Clearly my faithful readers agree with me on which topics are the most interesting. With that being said, I'll be writing much less about my day-to-day life and more about the interesting stuff. Today I'm going to write about what it's like to be awkward, a topic I've been meaning to cover for ages (and covered briefly here).

Imagine that you are a martian. You are trying to fit in on Earth, even though you are very unlike the Earthlings. And you are terrified that they will find out your true identity, that you are Not One of Them. You get the feeling that everything you do isn't the right (well, normal) way to do things, right down to the clothes you wear, the lunches you eat, the things that interest you, and the way you staple your homework together. Ok, maybe that last one is an exaggeration, but maybe not. I was joking with my dear friend May about “not getting the memo” – that is, when I was in middle school I didn't get the memo that stretchy pants weren't socially acceptable, I didn't get the memo when everyone started shaving their legs, etc. Maybe other girls have mothers who explain these things to them, or maybe they're just more aware of their surroundings, I don't know. But either way, I never got the memo, and somehow this contributed to the feeling of being not the same species as those around me.

One thing I always admired is how people with confidence acknowledge their differences without thinking it's awkward or special. People have lots of variations in their everyday lives, and sometimes they don't learn all the same things at the same time. Some of my new friends in college just learned how to do laundry this weekend, whereas I've been doing mine since age 11 or so. Some people drink a lot of juice, some people like milk. These personal differences are even more obvious when we're all living in the dorms together. But a few years ago, I never would have been able to say “I don't know how to straighten my hair” and be comfortable with it. Being under the impression that every other girl on the planet had obtained this skill, it would have seemed like an admission that I was a different species, and not a simple “I am a person who has never felt the need to straighten my hair before.” At best, I would have made a big deal out of it, turning it into a label – I've always liked labels way too much. It would have been “I am not a stupid valley girl/fashionista/preppy girl, so (since I am proud of being different and a nerd), of COURSE I don't know how to straighten my hair!” when in reality it is silly to either be ashamed of or make a statement out of such a simple difference.

I don't know what makes people get this feeling. I've heard feeling that we are very different from those around us is one of the classic signs of an introvert, but it also has a lot to do with confidence (a trait not particularly correlated with introversion or extroversion). A lack of confidence was a big factor in making my middle school years (and my year in France, for that matter) unpleasant. Fortunately, this is a trait that can be developed. I remember really wanting to write about this topic a few months ago, but since coming back to the US I have had much less difficulty with this, and no longer feel as strongly about it. The whole reason I am still dedicating a post to it is to talk about how it gets better.

In case you aren't familiar with the It Gets Better project, it's a project to reach out to LGBTQ youth and tell them that life really does get better. Don't give up. It won't always be this bad. I wish this project existed in a more generic form, just to tell all adolescents struggling with depression that it'll get better. I certainly had a very painful middle school experience, and each year with the possible exception of France has been better than the last. Talking to the younger siblings of my friends, I can tell everyone goes through the same things. We all have been hormonal, alienated, mean to others or bullied by others or both, and constantly on the brink of giving up. I wish I could talk to myself from five years ago just to give myself a little hope. And that is also something I'd like to do with this blog, but for those who come after me.

Step number one is just to realize that everyone is human, not robots. They all have differences and awkwardnesses as well. Maybe the kid sitting next to you put on his T-shirt inside-out this morning and only fixed it when someone made fun of him. To you, you don't even question whether it's “weird” or not, but he might feel as mortified about that as you feel when someone thought you were weird for not plucking your eyebrows. And maybe the girl who discovered you don't pluck your eyebrows now feels weird wondering if she is the only one who does. Who knows? The point is, when it happens to other people, you don't notice. It seems normal, because it is normal for humans to have lots of variation. So when it happens to you, don't react like someone just saw through your eyes into your naked soul. Just be cool. Laugh it off. There is no normal.

Another thing that helps sometimes is to break open your boundaries and talk to people about routines – things you wouldn't normally talk about. Some people are very good at the kind of everyday humor that comes with being comfortable with this, for example, telling a funny story about tripping on his own flipflop and faceplanting in front of some cute girls. If someone else can tell this story and it's hilarious and makes you feel closer to them, why can't you do the same? Answer: you probably can. The other day I tripped walking to the dining hall and a group of people were walking behind me. A few years ago I would have kept going without saying a word, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. But then, I looked back and said “You didn't see that, right?” with a conspiratorial wink. They laughed and we ended up having a really nice conversation. Bonus social points for me! So if this is a problem you suffer from as well, go tell someone about putting too much milk on your cereal this morning and how it got soggy and sucked. Maybe they'll even think you're funny.

When I originally intended to write this post several months ago, it was going to be solely about the odd sensation of being a complete outsider, both as an explanation to those less socially challenged than I and as a request to know if others experience the same thing. But I've been losing interest in this topic. At first this disappointed me – darn, I should've written it when I first had the idea – but it's actually a very good thing. I lost interest because I don't usually feel like this anymore, because everything's been getting better. (I really need these messages of hope right now because a friend of mine is going through some serious depression and I feel the need to broadcast the It Gets Better message, so bear with me.)

I have often worried that life is nothing more than a waiting game. In middle school, I just waited for high school so all my problems would go away. In high school, I waited for the beginning of every marching band season, I waited for summer, but most of all I waited for college. Junior year I found out I was going abroad, and I waited to leave everything I knew, start over, and I assumed that from there everything would be perfect. In France, I just waited to go home. The obvious concern here is this: what if it never does get better? What if I spend my whole life waiting, but happiness is not actually dependent on the particular situation of the present, and I'll never attain it?

But now I'm in college. I've never looked forward to something beyond college – never longed for a family or a grown-up job. So this is the endgame of waiting, the final test to see if the waiting is forever or if it gets fulfilled. And guess what? I'm not waiting anymore. I never catch myself thinking “It'll be better when X is over,” or “It'll be better when I get to do Y.” Sometimes the days pass slowly, because there's too much to do and it can be stressful and overwhelming. More often the days disappear like will-o'-the-wisps, as full of laughter as of stress, fulfilling even when they're wearing. I've only been here two weeks, but I've met some amazing people and I even feel like I belong. A dieu, my life as a martian. Welcome to feeling like a real person. This isn't to say there are never hard moments. I know I'm going to struggle with two of my classes this semester, and some days life just isn't as cheery as I wish it could be. But I'm where I'm supposed to be, in a pretty ideal environment for doing what I want to do.

This has been a scatter-brained three pages. I didn't know what I wanted to say, and life has been overwhelming. But what it comes down to is this: If life sucks, hang on. I believe that it'll get better. I believe that one day you'll be happy where you are. Yesterday was World Suicide Prevention Day, and recently I've been hearing about way too many suicides or attempted suicides. I know that sometimes life seems hopeless, but I don't think it is. Even if it takes a really long time to get there, it will get better. Have hope.

YOLO

I faithfully updated this blog through my year abroad, a roadtrip through Europe, and my thoughts upon returning to the States. I even plan to continue updating it indefinitely. But you may (or may not) have noticed a brief hiatus while I went on yet another month-long roadtrip, this time across the United States. I will summarize it the best I can, but I felt that even those who live and breathe words like me need a break every once in awhile. So this summer I stopped recording things obsessively in my red notebook. I didn't blog. I didn't even take pictures, although I am taking advantage of my friends' photos. For once I just lived life as it came, moment by moment. This summer, for me as for many graduated seniors, was a YOLO summer.

Yes, I know. YOLO is trite and overused. YOLO is for frat bros. But YOLO is actually not a bad life philosophy. You only live once, so you should live it to the fullest. People seldom regret the experiences they have, but they often regret the things they didn't do. So living with no regrets – fulfilling everything on your bucket list, going on adventures, seizing all opportunities – seems like a pretty good plan to me.

I'm not a good photographer. I have an appreciation for photography, but I dislike being the one behind the camera. I always feel like it's preventing you from really appreciating the moment. I don't want to be taking a picture of how much fun I'm having with my friends, so that later I can reminisce about it. I just want to be having fun with my friends. I feel like taking pictures destroys the integrity of the moment you want to remember. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for the pictures (or lack thereof) on my blog. I have made quite an effort with pictures while I was in France, mostly because I wanted to win the CIEE blogging competition. (I didn't.) But that obligation is over now, and I don't intend to continue the effort. I am well aware that long text posts are difficult to read and pictures to a lot to break it up. Tough luck, my dear readers. I am tired of pictures. Yolo.

(Wow, that's awesome! I can use YOLO to justify everything I do!)

So, in short, here's my summer: I went on a 4 week long, 6,000 mile roadtrip with my mom, my French sister, and my two best friends.

Shoshone Falls, Idaho: we jumped off cliffs into a lake full of heavily-tattooed Idahoans. The only fun thing to do in Idaho!

Next stop: Grand Teton and Yellowstone, Wyoming. Yellowstone was exciting as usual, and while camping in Grand Teton a BEAR ate my sister and my mothers' shoes. We also had some great ukelele-strumming around the campfire.

Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, and the Badlands: Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse (the Indian monument in construction) were rather unexciting to me, just because there's nothing to experience. You go, you see the monument, and you're done. I suppose it is kind of impressive, but we see pictures of it all the time so we knew what to expect and I wasn't wow'ed. The Badlands, however, were a real highlight of the trip. The spooky landscape is thought-inspiring, less crowded than the Grand Canyon, and (in my opinion) more beautiful.

We then arrived in Minneapolis, to stay with my aunt and uncle who live there. We explored the city a little bit, went to the Mall of America (warning! Highly not recommended for introverts and those with social anxiety!), and then set off for their cabin in the woods in the North Woods of Wisconsin, where we spent a week.

Next stop: La Farge, Wisconsin, where my great-aunt and great-uncle own a farm. We stayed with their son who lives across the street and went on some hikes and went to see a live radio show called Barn Dance (we thought we were going to an actual barn dance, but it turned out to be a lovely bluegrass concert). We also went to the farmer's market and were amazed to see the Amish who were selling their goods there.

Madison is only a 2-3 hour drive from La Farge, and I then had my orientation and registration. I signed up for classes, which I'll talk about later once I get around to writing a post about school. We stayed with my wonderful cousin Ellen who showed my friends around downtown while I did orientation.

After Madison, we drove 24 hours to the Grand Canyon, stopping only for 4 hours of sleep in a hotel outside of Denver. This is not something I recommend to anyone. Fortunately, there were four of us with driver's licenses, but it was still a long and trying voyage.

The Grand Canyon was lovely, and two of my friends and I hiked down the Bright Angel trail only about 3 miles, which took us half the day. It is deceptively difficult, but lovely and worth it.

After the Grand Canyon, we spent another painful day driving to Yosemite. We only ended up spending one day in Yosemite instead of the two we'd planned for, because we were all eager to get home at that point. But we did have a lovely hike up Vernal Falls during the day we were there.

The rest of my summer was more shenanigans in the spirit of YOLO. I showed my sister around the Bay Area, did lots of touristy things, would go places on a whim just to see if it was cool, and did a few things that shouldn't be written about on blogs. And it was wonderful. I love blogging and journaling, and I don't intend to stop either of them. But just for a summer, it was nice to live life unrecorded, without pondering too much the actions and words of the day, just living life in the moment.

Home

CIEE sent me a folder about reverse culture shock, along with a t-shirt and a lunchbox. (A lunchbox? Really? How odd.) After all this, it seems ridiculous to get a t-shirt, as if that meant anything about my year abroad. It's not like marching band shirts, which you wear for solidarity, or the shirts I bought in France, which have memories associated with them. So it just seemed like a rather strange afterthought. But anyway, I read the paper on reverse culture shock, since the pattern about culture shock in the host country had been more personally accurate than I would have expected.

And so far, I have experienced none of it. Perhaps this is because I saw my family 3 weeks before coming home, and thus had a gradual and unusual reunion with my former life. Perhaps it is because I thought about it so often, and realized in advance that I was probably idealizing home and should expect disappointment. For whatever reason, coming home was just plain coming home. Everything feels routine and I fell into all the same habits I had before that I had lost this year: eating whatever, whenever, instead of 3 big meals a day, going to bed at 2 with no one scolding me, sleeping in my hammock, taking the car to meet up with friends when I want to, drinking delicious American milk (not UHT), and all the other freedoms I used to have. I have changed, but my relationships with my friends have also fallen back into place seamlessly and effortlessly, as the parts of me that have changed are not parts of me that would show up at home. I am better at being assertive, being brave in another language, I have accepted the culture of my region and my high school and all that in France, and yet at home I fall back into the culture I grew up in... so why would I be any different? Perhaps the only legitimate feeling I could have of “They don't understand me!” would be resentment that no one can witness how much I have changed, and yet that seems a petty thought, and I already knew and accepted before coming back that no one will understand what I lived through. I don't need that affirmation.

So life goes on, and I guess to all appearances it hasn't changed. But now I have two homes – a year is a long time and I don't feel like I'm over-dramatizing by saying this. I belong in France just as much as I do here. My experiences in college will be viewed through two lenses: a Silicon Valley kid, with all the inner voices and experiences of my family and friends, and a girl from the Vendée, with other views from my host family and friends.

It is a terrible and wonderful thing to have two homes. It means that no matter where I am, I will be homesick for somewhere else. I will always be comparing, and blaming the things I don't like on being in the wrong place. I'll never (for the rest of my life) be in a position of not missing anyone.

When I'm at home, I tend to believe that wanderlust is natural and right, one of the highest, most enlightened callings one can have in life. I have this vision that I'll spend my life roaming from country to country, with a network of friends and family across the globe, and enough life experiences to write a Game of Thrones -sized book about. Some of my counselors from French camp have been like that, and I guess they've inspired me. And yet when I'm abroad I wonder if man's greatest purpose is instead nurturing our roots, staying with the family and friends we love, in a culture that understands us so much more perfectly. Sometimes the whole “going abroad to learn and change” thing seems silly and irrelevant. But then I come home again, and decide that going to somewhere in Scandinavia or Francophone Africa would be the next greatest adventure ever, and I'm already restless. One can debate the merits of traveling or of staying home, but in the end maybe I just don't have a choice. I'm driven by my wanderlust to do things that I can't really regret, because I come out a different person at the end. So if in two years' time I'm writing about trying to fit in in Sweden, cursing the fact that I didn't learn my lesson during my stay in France, you can all remind me that I just don't have a choice.

Europe pt 2

Venice is lovely. It is a peculiar city because it exists for tourism and tourism only. Slightly over half of the population is tourists, and the residents of Venice all work in tourism, whether it's driving watertaxis, cleaning hotels, selling plastic gizmos by the Grande Canale, or manning the many gift shops, restaurants, and Rialto market stalls.

You can't go into Venice hating tourists, as so many people do. You can't “beat the tourist traps” and try to find the “real Venice,” because the real Venice exists for tourism, and if you are going to Venice, you're a tourist, too. I find it marvelous to listen to the babble of different languages around me, the different cultures and fashions and faces. People from all corners of the Earth have come to admire the beauty of one common thing, and that makes my little humanities-loving heart feel warm and fuzzy.

All that being said, I believe we have succeeded in escaping the tourist-traps of Venice as much as possible, in all the right ways. We're staying in a monastery which is far cheaper than any hotel in the city. We seem to have the place almost to ourselves, including the roof which offers a view of the neighborhood, the skyline of churches and palaces, and a bit of the Canale di San Marco. The desk clerk didn't even speak any English, so we got by speaking some motley stew of French, Italian, and Spanish. (Linguistics is awesome!) We're right next to Garibaldi Street, where the shopkeepers don't speak English either (unlike the Rialto markets) and there are actual grocery stores that sell cat food and other household necessities for the few who live and work in Venice. Since Venice is famous for having overpriced mediocre food, we took advantage of this. My favorite meal was our rooftop dinner of meat and cheese sandwiches, salad, and chocolate pudding, bought at the grocery store and assembled and eaten with a view of the city below us.

Of course, we did take advantage of the many gelato shops around the city. The lemon gelato wasn't quite as good as the lemon gelato in Heidelberg, but their hazelnut flavor made up for it.

I guess there were opportunities we missed. We didn't tour the basilica of San Marco, the famous church, as we didn't want to wait several hours in line in the sun.

We didn't take a gondola ride, as we saw them meandering through the narrow canals that we were exploring on foot through the cobbled streets on the inside, so we were pretty sure we weren't missing out on much.

We also took the vaporetto, a water bus that took us from the station to our hotel, that gave us a lovely tour of the canals and was far cheaper and less over-romanticized than the gondolas. I loved that it was basically a subway on water. Our method of seeing Venice was just to explore on foot, since it isn't a large city.

I'm sure there's so much in the city that you could spend a week in there with a tour guide. But for practical purposes, you can do Venice in a day. You need to walk through the San Marco Square and through the Rialto markets, but after that you've pretty much seen what you need to see. We arrived late on Thursday, took a vaporetto ride, and left my very feverish brother and my exhausted mother in the monastery, while my dad and I went to find dinner. The next day, with the exception of Alex who spent the entire day sleeping off his illness, we explored Venice on foot. By noon we felt like we had seen everything we wanted to. We traded in my mom who had a heat-headache for Alex who was slightly more alert and got paninis. The afternoon was too hot for all of us so we took a siesta until it was cooler out, at which point we did some more walking to show Alex what we had seen in the morning and finished with rooftop dinner and gelato. And that is how you do Venice in a day.

Then we took a train to Sanremo, a smallish Italian beach town. We lost a day in transit, as the trains were neither direct nor speedy. That night we ate real Italian pizza: a pesto one with pine nuts, one topped with grilled veggies, and one with cheese and mushrooms. My dad complained of the creaminess, but I found them far superior to Domino's. Here's the view from our hotel:

The next day we spent at the beach. I can't recommend Mediterranean beaches at all, except for the fact that they're beautiful and the water's warm. Unlike in California, Italian beaches are not all public, so although we could see miles of beautiful beach, only a very small portion was public, and the 23 steps of shore were packed with squalling children and cranky old people. My dad sat down in a chair to take off his shoes, and was immediately yelled at by an old Italian lady because you had to pay for use of the chairs. So we moved our shoes to the area without chairs, and started playing catch on the shore with the frisbee we'd brought.

(By the way, this is the frisbee my team signed for me!)

 We had to inch out of the free beach a little to get enough space, but figured no one would mind. Pretty soon the same Italian lady was back, though not because we were on the wrong beach: “No no no! Ees dangerrrous forr zee bamBINI!”

That's when I knew I'd turned French. A year ago I would've placated her: “I'm very sorry ma'am, we'll be going now.” But I threw up my hands and said “Yes, yes ma'am, whatever you say, ees verry dangerrous forr zee bambini!” with a mocking look. Not that it did any good, of course – this response isn't necessarily better than the one I would've given a year ago. But in France they would say I'm finally standing up for myself and saying what I think.

So we came back 30 minutes later in swimsuits this time, as the day had warmed up quickly, and this time we played catch in the water, far enough from shore that they didn't mind. The water was warm and lovely, and shallow enough that we could still stand and deep enough that we could dive for the disk. That is how we spent a significant part of the day in Sanremo, and will be a fond memory even though Italian beaches are crowded and full of grumpy people. The Pacific is unfortunately not warm enough to play frisbee in.

That night we ate at the hotel restaurant, and made the mistake of ordering their special discounted 3-course meal. One course would have been more than sufficient. It started with a pasta course, but the pesto sauce was so creamy that all of us had trouble stomaching it, and I was the only one who ate more than half of my plate (being, of course, accustomed to fatty European meals). The second course, the meat course, had so much cow on it that any one of our plates probably would have been sufficient for the four of us. It was good, but we were already full. Europeans don't believe in doggy bags, but we played the uncouth Americans and asked to have it wrapped up (which they did with paper plates and foil, since they don't have styrofoam boxes). We ate it for lunch the next day in rolls, and then for dinner in pasta. I guess we got our money's worth. For dessert we had tiramisu and lemon mousse, both of which we managed to finish off despite barely making a dent in the meat course. My dad claims he will never be able to eat pesto again. But at least we can say we experienced a fancy Italian meal.

The next day was another day lost in transit: a train to Menton to rent a car, and then the 5 hour drive to Méribel. It was a relief to find myself back in a country where I speak the language, where I am not afraid to ask for directions or talk to strangers. I did survive the most embarrassing shopping trip of my life, however, as we stopped to get groceries before driving up to the apartment in Méribel. First of all, we had missed the machine in the produce section where you are supposed to weigh and identify your produce and print out price stickers for them before you go to the checkout line, so we had to run back with our basket of produce and weigh it all while our checkout lady stalled. Then we discovered they didn't take visa, and I had to run to the car to get more cash from my brother, since we were almost clean out. The lady's smile was getting more and more strained with every delay, and I always feel bad for perpetuating the stereotype of rude clueless Americans. I feel responsible for my family when we're in France, as I have to translate for them, and so I felt bad for the checkout lady and the line behind us.

But once we arrived in Méribel, everything was like what a vacation really should be: relaxing, unstressful, with exactly what we want for food and sleeping schedules and activities. After so many meals in restaurants or with makeshift sandwiches or leftovers, it is lovely just to cook ourselves spaghetti with leftover beef, spicy tomato sauce, and lots of parmesan. We've spent our time going on hikes up the mountain – my dad hiked high enough up to find the soggy patch of snow we could see from our balcony – as well as reading, cooking, and playing catch with the frisbee I'm so glad I brought with us. The mountains are green, unrecognizable from what I saw in winter, but breathtakingly beautiful.

There are just a few people around, construction workers doing repairs and some mountain bikers, but mostly we have the woods and the mountains all to ourselves. Yesterday on a hike some friendly horses came right up to the edge of their enclosure and shoved their noses in my hands looking for treats, but we all jumped back in terror when one or the other of us touched the electric fence I hadn't noticed. It took me a moment to figure out what had happened – at first I thought someone had thrown a rock at my elbow, maybe the owner of the horses who didn't like me touching them. I don't know why I felt the shock mostly in my elbow, since it couldn't have been my elbow that brushed the fence. But after looking wildly around for my assaulter, I realized it had been the thin wire between the horses and me, and that my eyeballs were buzzing with electricity. Enough shock to scare a horse is definitely enough shock to make a human hurt, and I felt it in my elbow and my eyesockets for an hour or two after.

This is me right before touching that wire you can see by my hip:

That's about all I can say about our adventures in Méribel. It was lovely and relaxing if uneventful. On the 27^th we drove to Paris (technically, to Roissy, the little city where the airport is) and checked in at the airport hotel for a night, which was far more luxurious than we would have expected. We also went to a Chinese restaurant, the first one I've seen in France. In the Vendée they aren't really big on ethnic food. Or ethnic anything. There's little to no diversity in the population, in food, in language, in culture... but at least in Paris there are plenty of immigrants. So we had good Chinese food, including one dish that seems Chinese-French fusion to me: fried frog legs. Despite the stereotypes, the French do not actually eat frogs very often. So this was the first time I had eaten frog legs, and it was from a Chinese restaurant in Paris. In this case, the stereotypes are absolutely true: frog legs do taste just like chicken!

Unfortunately, I had to take a different flight back from the rest of my family because my two-way ticket had already been reserved a year in advance, so while they had a convenient non-stop from Paris to San Francisco, I had to change planes in Reykjavik, Iceland, and in Boston. I left three hours before my parents and landed four hours after they did. I figured out the CDG airport without difficulty and got through the passport check in Iceland. The guys ahead of me in the line were clearly very proud of themselves when they said to the security guy that they'd been in Europe for a month. What world travellers! But when he asked me how many of the past 6 months I'd spent in Europe and I answered 10, he was startled and had to verify my visa. Hah. That's what it's like to really be a world traveller.

The Boston airport was slightly more problematic. My flights had nothing to do with each other and I even had to go through customs and then go back through security, changing airlines. The problem with this is that I couldn't find any way to get from one terminal to another, and it was the 5^th person I asked who actually gave me good directions. Once I got to the other terminal (on a hard-to-find shuttle) I wandered around with another woman looking for the same flight since we couldn't even find departures, only arrivals. We had to find a hidden staircase and go up a floor before getting to check-in, security, and our gates. Now that is a badly-designed airport.

Taking off in Boston felt like finally leaving. I've already left so many times – I left high school when my parents came, I left France nearly a month ago, I left our friends in Germany to go touring on our own, I left France again in Paris... but now taking off in Boston was the last time I would have to leave, the last goodbye to my year abroad. The real end. So I wrote a poem, because what else can you do?

Where to now?

A midnight sun on a sea of clouds

Where to now? Where to now?

Heartsick laughter and euphoric tears

It's been so long, so long.

Where to now?

The cows are laughing and cooing goodbye

The pigeons moo hello

Hello Stranger. Hello.

On wings of metal we chase the sun

Across the sky and the ocean wide

To see a bridge on the other side –

I am here, but who am I?

It's been so long, so long.

The other sights are still the same

Boy meets girl and goes to school

The seagulls caw, the smell is sun,

And on the other side the children play too

Sing songs, chase balls

And life goes on. It's been so long, so long.

Fin, and Europe pt 1

I haven't posted for two weeks. The longer I wait to post, the more I have to write about, the more I'm too intimidated to even start. I apologize for this absence which was started by wanting to take advantage of my parents who I hadn't seen for 10 months and enjoy my last week in France, and compounded by having too much to write about to even start.

On my last day of school, my class threw a party for me. It was the most touching thing that has ever been done for me, and I still feel incredibly spoiled and unworthy. My last class of the day was French, and my friends decided we should ditch and go lie in the sun in the grass outside. I didn't want to, because I wanted to say goodbye to everyone, but they convinced me to just show up 10 minutes late. When we showed up to French, muttering vague excuses about how sorry we were and how my friend was constipated, everyone ran to the back of the room and started singing to me. They wrote me a song based on this old French tune, Céline by Hugues Aufray. The new chorus is:

Non non non tu ne restes pas là

Non tu ne restes pas là

Tu as, tu as, ta famille là-bas.

Tu ne restes pas là non tu ne restes pas là

Mais nous penserons toujours à toi.

Which translates to:

No no no you aren't staying here,

No you aren't staying here

You have, you have your family over there

You aren't staying here, no, you aren't staying here

But we will always be thinking of you.

I won't even get into the verses because I don't feel like crying.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, they showered me with presents. They had all collaborated (even the teachers!) to get me a necklace, a book of photos of the Vendée, chocolate mogettes, a book of classic French children's jokes, a hat, and finally a white T-shirt that they all signed, with sweet messages wishing me well and saying goodbye. My French teacher even gave me two books of Doisneau's photography, since I had liked his work when we talked about it in class. Then we sat around and drank iced tea and ate baked goods that people had brought, and sung some Rihanna because one of my friends is into Rihanna. At the time I couldn't even express how touched I was by this, but this will remain one of my favorite memories. I had no idea they were going to throw me a party, and I am so lucky to have spent a year with such kind, generous, thoughtful people. They say that the French are hard to get to know, that Americans are much more open and hospitable. But French friends are friends for life, and once you have a relationship, they'll do anything for you.

That same night, my host brother came back from his internship in Germany to celebrate his 20^th birthday and to meet my parents. It was nice to see him, as we thought we wouldn't see each other again before I left. We threw a party for his birthday and my departure. Most of my friends couldn't come, but it was fun anyway.

The next day my parents came. Their train was 3 hours late due to flooding and landslides because France has been having crazy weather – it's still raining in the Vendée and in Germany, I can't go outside because I would probably get heatstroke. But eventually we were reunited. I was sort of expecting some climactic, satisfying feeling that would leave me writing “I can't describe how it feels to see one's parents for the first time in a year, but it made my year complete and wonderful.” But actually we were all just really tired, so we said hello and hugged each other a lot and then brought them home, and it was anticlimactic but nice anyway.

My parents stayed with us for a week. After they got over their jetlag, my mom got along very well with my host family, as she speaks decent French. My dad and my brother, who don't speak any French, were a little lost. Our week was filled with meeting the people who were important to me (extended family, my friends, my frisbee coach and team, etc.) for drinks and snacks, so my parents could meet the people I had talked about so much, as well as touristy outings. On Monday we went to the Puy de Fou, one of the most famous historical theme parks in the world. It was sort of like a cross between Disney and a Renaissance Festival. It wasn't really a problem that my family didn't understand any of the stories behind the shows they put on, because it was just visual eye candy – a falconry show, a viking battle, the three musketeers having a sword duel, a chariot race, etc. I highly recommend it.

On Wednesday we went to l'île d'Yeu, a beautiful island off the coast. We rented bikes and explored the coast.

Thursday was my last frisbee game. It was also the first week of good weather, so we went to the beach and played in the sand. Afterwards, I plunged in the ocean with a friend of mine, and upon coming out we gave everyone sopping wet hugs, despite their complaints. They then presented me with a frisbee, signed with all their names and lots of “bisous”, so I can continue playing with the Jets years after we're separated.

Needless to say, this was pretty special as well. I can't really think of how to describe frisbee except to say that if you've ever been in marching band, or done soccer or dance or theater, you probably know what I'm talking about. Even if the people in the group aren't your best friends, there's a certain sacred bond that makes them very close to your heart.

On Friday we went to Noirmoutier and went on a boat trip to take advantage of the good weather. Finally good weather after about 6 months of cold and rain.

I guess I ought to write about Saturday, the day of my departure, because the point of this blog is that I'm sharing my exchange student experiences. But I don't think I can. It's too personal and too fresh. But I will draw a conclusion from the final painful exchanges I had with my loved ones: Yes, I admit that I spent a lot of my 10 months complaining about things and wanting to go home. Particularly the first half was hard, and even during the second half I was just counting down the months, then weeks, then days until I'd see my parents and my brother and all that homesickness would be over. But in the end it was so hard to leave. It wasn't even “mixed feelings.” Leaving that house and boarding that train was just one of the most awful things I've had to do. It wasn't like leaving home – home is always there, and I knew I'd be coming back. But I don't know when I'll next be able to come back to the Vendée. In 3 years? 5 years? 10? My little cousins might be all grown up and have forgotten me, my frisbee team might not have any of the same members anymore, my class will have graduated and left the area. Essentially, I left for good. Nothing will be the same anymore. And suddenly I realized just how many good things I was leaving behind: how many good memories I have here with good friends. The interesting travel I got to do. All the people I met. All the boundaries and fears I overcame. The changes. The everything. It is pessimistic human nature to spend a year complaining about the bad things only to reminisce about the good times upon leaving. And I can't regret what I lived through, saying I “should've been more optimistic,” because my homesickness and loneliness and all the other bad parts were legitimate. But I guess I didn't give enough credit to the good times. Would've could've should've. The point is, it's worth it. It's painful to come and it's painful to leave, but all that means is that it was worth it, and those who I met and loved and lived with in France will always be in my heart.

Like emotional whiplash, the tears of the train station turned into joy at being reunited with our good old friends upon arrival in Germany. We spent a lovely week in Heidelberg with them. It was nice to do some touristy things (touring a castle and taking a riverboat cruise) but otherwise be with people who speak German and know the city, which made for lovely hikes, shopping, gelato expeditions, and hanging out in their apartment when it got too hot to do anything else. This is my favorite kind of travel: couch-surfing with good friends who know exactly what activities would make us happy.

I have also fallen in love with Heidelberg, which goes on my list of places to live someday. It's beautiful and has all the necessary components of a picturesque European city: a castle, a river, arched bridges, a very urban downtown and yet very green and forested surrounding mountains.

Heidelberg

View of the ruins from up top

And from on bottom

They have almost everything that I've been missing while living in France as a bustling university town with a strong foreign presence and excellent ethnic food. I have eaten delicious Middle Eastern food as well as the classic heavy German staples of bratwurst and schnitzel. You hear a surprising amount of English on the streets, from the soldiers who were here on the US base (that is now closing) or the scientists at the University. Most of the shopkeepers speak English, and speak it quite fluently. I also heard conversations in French, Japanese, and other languages I wouldn't know how to recognize. I would love to live in a place so used to foreigners that I would be commonplace, not a curiosity labelled by my own accent. I also like the fact that I look German. Oftentimes the French have mistaken me for German, and apparently the Germans do as well. I look just like all the other pale, blonde, blue-eyed girls on the street, and people often mistakenly addressed me in German, while our Italian-blooded host Cheryl seldom gets that treatment despite her four years in Heidelberg.

Unfortunately, the hot weather hit that week, and there were two days that were hot enough that we couldn't do anything except stay in the apartment in front of the fan and consume cold drinks. My mother and I melt into useless sludge in anything above 90°F (32°C). But we would go out for gelato as the day began to cool down, and that was enough activity for us.

The weather broke just as we left, and we got on a bus to Frankfurt-Hahn as it was raining. Flying with Ryanair, which is a cheap European airline, is very odd because they only use obscure airports that no one else uses, which means taking a 2 hour bus before even getting to the airport. Other than that we had good luck with Ryanair. It is notorious for charging you extra for everything (your carry-on is 5 cm too fat, so we'll charge you more than your plane ticket cost to put it in checked luggage!) and so it's a little like playing the lottery – you might win or you might lose, going with such an airline. But we won, and ended up safely in Venice. More later.