Consider this your fair warning: If I intend to do the past week any justice, then this blog entry is going to have to be epically long. I suggest that you make yourself an iced tea and get comfortable.

The Other Side of the World is Really the Other Side of the Mirror

The following is a recipe for San Franciscans wishing to adjust to the Chilean physical and social environment.

Take everything you’re used to and gently turn it 180 degrees, making sure none of the contents shift in the process. Add drastic changes in daily winter temperature, Chilean Spanish (no substitutes), and a fully open capitalist market. Skim off from the top the adherence to the stated speed limit; remove and dispose of immediately. Serve with a side of parallel politics.

Everything here, with the exception of the added ingredients mentioned above, is familiar. Chile physically seems to mirror Northern California. San Francisco is “The City by the Bay”; Vina del Mar and Valparaiso, then, must be “The Sister Cities by the Other Bay.” Central Chile’s hills and Mediterranean-biome plant life mirror the hills and plant life of the Bay Area. Like most of northern California, the winter isn’t all that bad. (Yes, it gets really cold at night, even after what felt like a Spring day, but that’s because in Chile houses are not kept artificially warm with central heating like they are in the U.S.) Valparaiso has ascensores to climb the hills for you; San Francisco has cable cars for the same purpose. The ocean sparkles in the sun here the same way it does in northern California. Even the politics have things in common.

Right now, the university I am supposed to attend is almost entirely shut down due to student protests in response to what the students consider a mis-allocation of government funds for education. A couple of years ago, San Francisco State University students blocked off access to an academic building in response to increases in tuition and cuts to academic offerings.

The Chilean student strikes are more complicated than my brief introduction above, of course–not that I fully understand what’s going on myself–but it seems to me that young Chileans are similarly, but more grandly, demonstrative as Californians.

In my pre-departure post I assumed that nothing would be familiar to me in Chile. I was wrong. Almost everything is familiar, but in an inverted, re-mixed sort of way. I’m living on the other side of the mirror.

Parque Nacional La Campana

La Campana is a national park in the Fifth Region of Chile (where Vina del Mar and Valparaiso are located, along with a good chunk of central inland Chile). IFSA took us here during orientation.

For now, I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking.

No Te Preocupes

“Do not expect breakfast in bed,” IFSA staff tells us during orientation. So what happened on the first morning I spend with my host family? I was brought breakfast in bed. It happened the following morning, too. One might think this is awesome–and it is. I mean, who doesn’t like breakfast in bed? But for me, it is also a little uncomfortable. I’m not a princess; I shouldn’t be treated like one.

So I asked my host mom to set breakfast for me on the table the next morning instead of bringing it all the way to my room. She did, and I felt relieved.

So what happened this morning? Breakfast in bed again. And then she was off doing something else before I could protest.

And when I do protest such luxury (she also tidied up my room for me and insisted on walking with me to meet up with IFSA friends at night), all I get is “No te preocupes” (“don’t worry about it”) and a few words explaining that she likes to do the things she does. So, either I am going to have to ask for a bejeweled crown as well, or ask my host mom to be a little less nice to me.

It makes me wonder, are all Chilean families this hyper-caring?

Carreteando with the Chileans

Last night was my first carrete–the Chilean word for party. After hanging out at a bar and having awesome conversations in Spanish with Chileans I met that night through a mutual IFSA student connection, the group took the party to one of the Chilean’s apartments. This is where a big difference between Americans and Chileans comes up. Americans like to party, but are usually in bed before the sun comes up (with some exceptions). Chileans really like to party,but don’t start until late and don’t stop until the Americans are waking up the next morning. So, I and a couple other students left “early,” while the party was still based in the apartment. Leaving early was the wrong decision. The rest of the group went dancing afterwards, and from what I hear it was a ton of fun.

Next time, I guess. There is time for a lot more carreteando this semester.

Hasta luego.

Today marks my first full week in sydney and the first day I’ve seen the sun since I got here.  Actually, it peeked out briefly while I was sorting out my classes on campus, and I was so thrilled that I changed into a short-sleeved shirt and retrieved sunglasses from my room, but by the time I returned to the University it was pouring freezing rain and has not stopped–until today.

There are not many ways I can describe the moving-in experience textually, but if I had planted a camera on the road leading to my apartment village for those 48 hours, right by the steep hill which marks the beginning of all routes, there are many things it would capture.  First, there would be many groups of three or four walking excitedly, taking pictures of their new surroundings, chattering noisily the whole way to our main shopping center, called Broadway.  They would not even notice how difficult the hill is through their energy from finally moving in.  Fast-forward the video a few hours, and you would see the same groups with much less energy, pushing giant red shopping carts full of food and linens and every other heavy necessity in the rain, and you would probably have a bird’s eye view of these students losing control of their carts on that hill, filled with all their new goods.  And later that night, you would see an oversized group of 25 of us, Americans on our first night out together and wanting everybody to know it, scrambling back and forth on the street trying to find our way to King Street.  The next day, you would probably see attendants summoned from the supermarket angrily dragging the carts back to Broadway where they belong.

My friends and I, on the other hand, took a cab home from Broadway and bypassed part of the chaos.  However, I realized later that night as I lay in my bed that I had only bought a duvet cover and not the actual warm comforter that goes inside this thin sheet, so I slept little in my apartment because I was so cold and my room has no heating unit.  The next morning, to my dismay, as soon as I turned my lights on they all exploded from a short-circuit.  Twice I waited for a half hour in my room for the maintenance man so that he could tell me twice that he could not fix my lights, so my second day and night were spent in darkness.  Most days this week I woke up around 7 am because the wind was blowing so hard outside my window!

At orientation this second day we attended orientation in the Great Hall, the oldest building on campus and certainly the most dignified, and then we listened to the University of Sydney bells: the largest instrument in the world.  Small gargoyle-like fixtures and statues line the walls, and stain-glass windows cast a wonderfully divine aura all around the building’s worn brick and sloping arched ceiling.  We were introduced to an Aboriginal dance group who were actually siblings of the same family and they did dances that reflected the profound thoughts of this ancient civilization.  One movement of this classic piece was a charade of a kangaroo in a field who spots a dingo.  I’ll have to spoil the ending by saying absolutely nothing happens after the kangaroo encounters the dingo except that he shimmied his shoulders a bit and his sister blew loudly on her horn several times.  It made me wonder if my professor for my class about Aboriginals will also smear white paint on his face!

That night my friends and I walked around King street and discovered that Dominos pizza is way too close to my apartment.  To my disappointment pasta bread bowls are over $10 (and that’s Australian dollars), so I will have to remain a cautious patriot by staying loyal to the American Dominos.

On Tuesday, I signed up for a tour of Manly Beach while it was still just overcast and not yet raining.  Of course, as we boarded the bus a torrential downpour began and lasted our entire stay at the beach.  Despite the weather it was shocking that people were scattered throughout the ocean: canoeing, boogie-boarding, and just swimming.  I can’t say that the actual beachtown of Manly is as impressive as the ferry ride to this destination: we got an excellent view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge again, and that night we were able to see these same sights glowing in the darkness.

This same night I discovered that although Sydney is an english-speaking country, there is certainly a barrier in relaying information.  When we asked a receptionist which bus we should take back to our apartments and where the stop would be, he gave us clear directions that took us about half a mile from this bus station, which was actually half a block from our starting point.  When we boarded the bus recommended by the receptionist, the driver barked that this was the wrong vehicle and directed us to yet another wrong bus whose driver had never heard of our suburb.  By the end of the night my clothes were so thoroughly soaked that I had to hang them up to dry.

On Friday I saw Harry Potter in theaters for almost double the cost of a movie ticket in the United states, but the Broadway theater reserved seats and offered a drink bar inside the cinema.  And Saturday the sun finally peaked out and unveiled a deceptively warm and perfect day for exploring the city.  My friends and I took this opportunity to venture to Hyde Park, which features an exotic and gorgeous landscape in the middle of the business district of Sydney, and luckily we brought umbrellas for the surprise rainstorm that began as soon as we exited the bus.  Next to it is the Hyde Park Barracks Museum, where the English convicts were housed and which later was a housing site for “unaccompanied female migrants,” particularly the Irish who came during a famine.  The gift shop displayed a pet rat in a glass case which was meant to pay  homage to the rats that preserved everyday items of the inhabitants by making underground nests out of them.  We also looked around St. Mary’s church, which resides on the site of the first Catholic church built in Australia.  Finally, we attended the “Winter Festival” where you could pay to ice-skate and not pay to get samples of chai lattes and Austrian tea made from red wine.  From here on out the weather should be perfect and it will only get warmer for more exploration!

As someone who finds it hard to be compelled to change very easily, it is both a shock and, in a way, a welcome relief to find myself very much changed from this past.  In a sense, I think I have found or understood more of who I am and what I want to be in life.  This past year has been like a series of windows into my character.  To try and state directly what that is like would be impossible, or if not impossible, beyond my grasp to attempt.  Instead, I shall offer a glimpse of my experiences so that whoever may read this may see what possible opportunities await, and maybe then an idea of what I wish to get across will become more apparent.

In terms of music, I was beyond fortunate.  From small gigs in the basements of pubs to sold out concert halls I saw more acts than I could have possibly imagined, two of which were the greatest concerts of my life.  Dublin’s music scene is pretty top-notch, and because the Irish truly love their live music they send incredible amounts of energy to the bands which results in a much better performance on-stage.  In order of appearance, I saw: Imogen Heap, Mystery Jets, Chuck Ragan, Gaslight Anthem, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Gemma Hayes (three times), Iron & Wine, Gogol Bordello, These Charming Men (a Smiths cover band), Josh T. Pearson (who announced he learned his father died not an hour before the concert began), Drive-By Truckers, Noah & The Whale, Belle & Sebastian (in Vienna), Explosions in the Sky, The Submarines, The Mountain Goats, Harvest (a Neil Young cover band, twice), Villagers, Beach House, and Stornoway. Plus numerous little unknown bands, friend’s bands, and the like.

Had I been able to see all the theater I wanted to, this next list would be about the same length as my concerts.  Still, I did see a fair share for a student.  Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkman (starring Alan Rickman), Shaw’s Pygmalion, Martin McDonagh’s The Beauty Queen of Leenane, as well as McDonagh’s The Cripple of Inishmore.  Trinity Dublin’s theater society, Players, put on a number of their own productions, some typical, some avant-garde, and both serious and hilarious.  Some of those included the Laramie Project, Oedipus Rex, and a friend of mine’s musical that he wrote, Jurass-tastic! the Jurassic Park themed musical, set to the music of Elton John, Beastie Boys, and Lady Gaga.  I was nearly in tears for most of the show.  There was also the Dublin Shakespeare Festival, in which I saw a number of small performances of scenes from various Shakespeare plays put on by my friends at Trinity.

On the subject of festivals, it seems every other week there is another festival of some sort in Dublin.  I experienced at least a half-dozen theater related festivals, a Fringe Fest, foreign film festivals, LGBT Pride Week, traditional music festivals, literary themed fests, and so on.  What “festivals” usually means are free performances, live music, or anything else of that sort.  There is also Culture Night, in which every museum, art gallery, performance space, and anything else is open free to the public, and the entire city seems to go out to enjoy it and the city’s collective spirit seems to be quite jovial.  At the start of the summer there were free movies in a park on a big screen, with movies like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Inception, and How To Train Your Dragon.  A Zombie march with thousands of participants dressed and acting as the undead.  On June 16^th, Dublin had its annual celebration of Bloomsday, the date that James Joyce’s Ulysses occurs, and the streets were filled with folks in Edwardian garb, recitations or performances from the novel, and countless copies of the book in hand of Dubliners and tourists alike.

I visited a half-dozen countries around Europe, such as England, Scotland, Austria, Belgium, Spain, Gibraltar, and Poland. .  I’ve tasted dozens of beers from probably as many countries and eaten amazing local delicacies.  Visits have included gorgeous natural landmarks and scenes, and horrifying displays of human evil in the form of Nazi concentration camps.  I’ve gone to the tip of Northern Ireland, I’ve seen the murals of Belfast depicting “heroes” and victims of the violence there, the southern tip of Ireland near Cork by Kinsale and eaten the seafood there, explored the Ring of Kerry and hiked through its lakes and valleys.  And I’ve gone through Galway on my way to the Aran Islands and biked across Inis Mor to gaze across the Atlantic Ocean, with rainbows around me, while waves crashed against the cliffs I stood on.  I’ve listened to old-timers regale tales of the revolution and civil war in Ireland, and I’ve heard songs of joy and songs of sadness.

Some of my journeys and adventures I owe directly to the Butler Program staff and many others I owe indirectly, because of the kindness and support I received from Geoff and Maria.  Not only did I have an amazing flat in an incredible location.  They took me around the country and where they didn’t take me, they had suggestions and ideas of where to go and what to do.  They showed me the hidden spots of Dublin that only a local would know, and treated me not as an advisor would treat an advisee, but as an equal and a friend, which they surely have become.  And I cannot forget my amazing flatmate Heather, who has become a trusted friend after starting off as complete strangers thrown into a flat together.

I have made friends from around the world while here on this small island nation.  From the café I briefly worked at I made friends with Malaysians, Brazilians, Poles, and others.  During my travels I have met people from dozens of countries and all walks of life, not to mention all of the friendships I have made and built up over my year at Trinity.  Some will be remembered for the fun times had and the memories they hold, and others will be held near and dear to my heart for what they have taught me about the world, others, and myself.  And, thanks to the age of Facebook, most of these friendships will be maintained for years to come.

I cannot begin to stress what this year has meant or done for me.  It would not be the same for everyone that came to Ireland, but I hope that all who go abroad would have a similar experience if they were willing to give themselves to the experience, the people, the cultures, the countries you visit and the country you choose to call home for a period of time.  For me, I can’t imagine having a better experience than the one I had in Dublin; one that was more suited to who I am and the journey that I am on.

It has been 2 weeks since I left home in Chicago and so much has already happened. I’ve had tons of amazing experiences, met a lot of new friends and done way too much to even describe.

Find more videos like this on Institute for Study Abroad – Butler University

(Ryan)

After spending a week in Costa Rica, so much has happened I’m not quite sure what to talk about first, so I’ll try to begin at the beginning.

The flights went perfectly well, but on arriving at the Liberia airport (whose arrival building is one large room), Kayley’s luggage was nowhere! We finally got it back on the 14th, I believe, since I didn’t know what address to give the people at the airport, but between the 9th and the 14th, Kayley had very little clothing and no toiletries except ones that I brought. We took a Taxi to our hostel for $20 after leaving the airport.

Hotel Guanacaste, the hostel, was not what we were expecting. I had made a reservation the previous night, but they had no record of it, since I was supposed to print out the confirmation page, which I couldn’t really do at the hotel or the airport, but I paid the $25 to stay the night. When we got to the room, there was no hot water for either the sink or the shower; since then we have become more aware that many buildings do not have water heaters (though Hotel Boyeros did!), but houses often have water heaters built into the shower head, which are alright. The room was very small and hot, and the fan that was in the room confused us when there was a button that said “shake” instead of “oscillate.”

We left the next morning to go to the Hotel Boyeros as soon as we could. We took a taxi that cost $8 to go probably 3 blocks, not knowing that the hotel would be so close. The receptionist at Boyeros was very friendly and gave us the keys to our rooms, which were blank white cards we were unfamiliar with. After many tests and much confusion, we learned that the cards have to be held near a certain part of the door to unlock them, and that there are card slots in the room that make it so that the lights will turn on. After other IFSA students arrived, we went to the local plaza and bought some food and water at the supermarket, as well as looked in some clothing stores, which were quite highly priced, Liberia being a bit of a tourist destination since it’s close to the beach. We had dinner with the rest of the group in the Boyeros restaurant for about $10 each (since they couldn’t separate the bill, everyone just gave the amount they thought their dinner was).

Orientation started the next day. We started with breakfast at Pan y Miel, who catered for us during orientation, consisting of food, juice, and some coffee usually. We then walked to the Universidad de Costa Rica, and we took a placement test and learned about what the Costa Rican educational system would be like. That evening, our host families came to pick us up, and my host mother, Doña Mélida, came last and spoke with Teresita (the program adviser, of course!) for a little while. It wasn’t the greatest first impression, but I later realized what a gift it would be to have her as my host mother.

The rest of that orientation week was mostly the same thing, with information and Spanish language classes. Food at my house was very similar each day, and indeed each meal. It was certainly not a bad thing, though, as I very much enjoyed the food. For just about every meal, there were arroz y frijoles (rice and black beans), in the morning mixed (called gallo pinto) and for the other meals separate; plantains (plátanos), fried when ripe and boiled when green; cheese, uncooked or fried (queso frito); a corn tortilla, or tortilla de maíz; and in the morning, scrambled eggs (huevos revueltos/picados). Because Doña Mélida was one of the older host mothers, we ate these more traditional foods; other families had things like hot dogs (perros calientes) or French fries (papas fritas).

Part of orientation was also optional dance classes, which were taught by… Doña Mélida! Everyone who participated really seemed to enjoy the classes, and on what would be our final night with our host families, there was a party at the university that included dancing for our families. One of the most fun parts was the punto guanacasteco dance which included bombas, which are short poems that the dancers recite after shouting ¡Bomba!, usually involving the men trying to woo the ladies and the ladies being assertive. After everyone started eating, the people playing the marimba (an instrument that resembles a large xylophone) played the song for the punto and the man who was playing the percussion part (which is basically scratching some object against another thing that looks like a gourd) recited some bombas; the first one must have lasted five minutes (ours were usually four lines), and though none of the students seemed to know what he was saying, it was very impressive and everyone loved it.

The next day, we brought our luggage to Boyeros and left for excursions. We first went to the Parque Nacional Rincón de la Vieja, which was a fun hike with, after a certain point, a huge downpour of rain, the kind where after a certain point, everyone just stops trying to avoid being wet, although the playful jealousy/resentment of the people who have rain coats continues. (We have photos of the trip, mostly of the trees, that Kayley will have to upload.) We went, mostly soaked, to a small restaurant that didn’t expect so many people to come, but we ate and then went to a hot spring, which had multiple pools of very warm water, a lovely change from the colder rains earlier in the day.

Afterwards, we went to the Ocotal hotel, which is a beach resort with two beds in every room (Boyeros had three in every room, I believe), so as is typical people, were complaining about having to share beds, which has never been a problem for me. Most of the other students went to a dance party after having dinner at the hotel, which Kayley and I didn’t attend, since I had, by this point, started to feel sick in a few ways. The next day, after hotel breakfast, we went in a lancha, which is a small ship, to sail into the Golfo de Papagayo. It was mostly uneventful, but still fun. Afterwards, we had lunch and then started the bus ride to Heredia; almost everybody slept for most of it, since no one had slept much the previous night, and we met our host families for Heredia.

Currently, I live with Doña Ligia, a first grade teacher;  her mother Rosario, an abuelita viejita (probably best translated as little old grandmother); José, her son who is an optometrist; Gustavo, whose relation to the others I am still unsure of; Marixa, the ama de casa (housewife, roughly) who cleans and cooks when Doña Ligia is out teaching; Sebastián, the old dog (13 years) who is partially blind and deaf; and Chiqui, the 2-year old cat. I will have another post some other time with more about my family and plenty of other things, since this post resembles a long essay.

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Kayley has not been able to make a post yet since, first, her computer did not work with the internet at her house in Liberia, and secondly, since her computer has, in the transit from Liberia to Heredia, been slightly damaged and won’t turn on. Additionally, the screen on my camera has been broken, but I believe it can still take pictures. While I am trying to fix the computer problem, I will try to lend her my laptop to make a post soon, though this week is also pretty busy for both of us. We go for our visas de estancia tomorrow, in the capital of the country, San José. ¡Ojalá todo vaya bien! (Hope everything goes well!)

Before leaving for Sydney, I spent most days outdoors teaching tennis and soaking up the heat of the sun which I would miss greatly while in the winter of the Southern Hemisphere.  I anticipated that the weather would be a balmy 65 degrees everyday, and was not deterred by my mother’s warnings that I would surely freeze if I packed only summer clothes.

In my last few weeks home, I encountered many different reactions to my upcoming abroad experience during family events.  Many are under the impression that because Sydney is at the edge of the earth it must be quite remote and distanced from meaningful civilization.  I could see some frown inwardly as they questioned me about Australian culture, asking with carefully selected diction what else is important to Ozzies other than drinking, partying, and laying out on their beautiful beaches.  More importantly, they projected jealousy at what appeared to be my five month vacation.

My friends understood the importance of studying abroad in a different light: they were sure that my experience would initiate meaningful changes in my attitudes towards school, culture, and most importantly life.

In reality, my expectations and feelings are the only ones of value to this blog.  As a political science major I am fascinated by the continent quite similar in vastness to the United States which boasts a penal colony as its origin.  As for the culture, I was excited to interact and, if all goes well, integrate into a population in which about 20% of the people have a convicted criminal for an ancestor; if only the American tax dollar paid for prisons that start thriving metropolises like the English did!  The University of Sydney has an enrollment of 50,000 students –45,000 more students than Emory, my home university–with clubs and other fantastic amenities to support such a population.  It is one of the top three universities in Australia, and certainly a desirable place to expand my academic horizons.  I was excited to be treated like an adult, something I cannot experience fully in America until the age of 21.

My journey down under kicked off at noon on July 13 on a flight to Chicago.  I don’t think I could truly appreciate how much I would miss my mom until she waved goodbye to me at the Philadelphia airport, and suddenly I felt very scared and vulnerable.  Three hours later, at the Chicago airport, I experienced my first time change: a one hour setback both on my watch and my flight to Las Angeles.  When we were finally permitted to board the delayed plane, I quickly noticed that the girl sitting next to me had a backpack, a carry-on, and an excited expression.  We spent the entire flight referencing Bill Bryson’s book, A Sunburned Country, and would have remained chattering in our pre-abroad bliss had not the elderly passenger next to us overheard our conversations and tried to convince us that his son-in-law is the chief Rabbi of Australia (if only that title exists).  He told both of us that he was positive we are both Methodists and Baptists (which we are not), socialists (possibly because of our conversation skills), and finally settled on insisting that we are communists.  Our flight ended shortly after he introduced us to the middle-aged man sitting next to him, named “my unmarried son.”

Once at the airport, we boarded a shuttle which took us to the gate of Qantas, the second oldest airline in the world which compensates for its inferior age with superior service (and prices) to any other airline I have ever travelled in economy class.  We were advised to buy alcohol in the duty-free shop because prices would double once we entered a liquor store in Sydney, and what ensued was a mad rush for the precious tonic comparable only to Black Friday in Times Square.  The plane proved to be spacious and both my neighbors were enrolled on my abroad trip, and we all quickly scarfed down the wine provided by the airline and then fell deeply asleep.

Upon waking up on the plane I was confronted by a beautiful view of the sunrise from the camera on the outside of the plane.

As we landed in Sydney, a man was rushed out on an ambulance for complications during the impossibly long 15-hours of flight.  Once the ambulance and quarantine team had left and we were permitted to exit the plane the pilot announced that another unlucky passenger had turned five on the 14th; with the 14 hour time difference it was now July 15th and the child had lost this day.  I cannot omit in this blog how painful it was to exchange my hard earned money at the counter outside customs in return for much less money in Australian dollars.

IFSA-Butler transported the group to the Sydney Academy of Sport where we were greeted by terrible cold, rain, chocolate muffins, and a wild cockatoo sitting nonchalantly in a tree (this bird sells for well over $1000 in the US).  All of us had three roommates, but we had little time to spend in the room because we went on a lengthy “bush walk”: I thought this would be a leisurely stroll among the native flora and fauna, but it proved to be a hike through feet of mud and scaling soaking wet flat rocks at 90 degree angles in order to see Aboriginal “art” etched on top of a mountain.  At one point a rainbow appeared through the heavy rain, making the whole affair feel to me like the story of Noah’s Ark, except instead of symbolizing a wonderful covenant with god it made us realize that our tour guide had lost almost the entire group on the desolate mountain.  It was an interesting way to start our trip abroad, but this eliminated any thought of Australia being an easy vacation as many people back home imagined it.

That night my roommates and I struggled to stay awake until 9 pm Australian time, then once we finally allowed ourselves to sleep we all woke simultaneously at 4 am or similar hours.  We could hear the strange sounds which were blasted from the beaks of strange birds on the national park campground where we would stay for this 4-day orientation.  As one of my roommates read a book in her bed waiting for the sun to rise enough for breakfast, she discovered a large red cockroach-looking creature crawling toward her pillow.  I learned during this orientation that bugs in Australia are either enormous  or small with lethal venom.

This second day in Australia we attended a morning tour of the Taronga Zoo where we saw a few interesting birds, including a very friendly emu which looks like an ostrich.  We were able to pet fluffy kangaroos and watch them prance around with wallabees.  Finally, they guided us through the Tasmanian Devil exhibit which is special because it features an animal that is becoming endangered due to a rapidly spreading facial tumor disease, transmitted when they show friendship by biting each other on the face with the same pressure as an alligator’s jaw (I hope I never make friends like that here in Sydney!).

We took a beautiful ferry ride to Circular Quay, where we were able to get our first views of the famous Sydney Opera House and the great Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Once ashore we explored the markets at the Quay which had amazing food and interesting tourist souvenirs, then we split up and my group ventured to Darling Harbour and Chinatown as well as the cheaper mall in the asian quarters.  By the end of the day my feet ached but I mustered up just enough energy to learn Aborigine dancing with the rest of my group back at the campground.  On Sunday, after hours of tedious orientation they instructed us to pack our bags for the University of Sydney.  All of us were extremely excited to move into our permanent lodgings and of course to get internet.  I don’t think I have been without internet this way in years!  I miss having my 3g network on my iphone.

I was very excited when I moved into my studio apartment which has its own bathroom, a minifridge, the biggest bed I’ve ever had, and no heat.  I’ve never had any of these things in my 2 years living at Emory!  Now the rain is pouring, a reminder that I have no raincoat, and Sydney’s freezing winter wind is inviting me to explore the city more!

Week #1 of Classes

Back to the books we go. Say goodbye to the sweet short summer break and a little bit of respite for the mind because it’s time to hit the books again. As always I had those first day of day of classes jitters except this time over and over again because each day my schedule is a little bit different and none of my classes are ever in the same location. Plus there may have also been the added aspect of the first day of school being my 20^th birthday, which is just insane. I never thought I’d be going to classes on my paper and have it snow being that usually my birthday is in the summer, but we’re just switching things up here in New Zealand. Overall the classes seem like they are going to be really good looking back on the week. They are definitely structured different and the lecture style a little more loose than I am used to. There is as everyone has been telling us much more emphasis on the work outside of the classroom, which makes the lectures a bit more of a brief and quick summary than the full blown detail that I am used to in classes back home. It’s going to be very interesting to get a totally different perspective that seeps into some of the discussions as well, especially in my sociology class which will have me reading about a NZ conscientious objector during WWI which will explain the war I’m sure from a different view as well as just the basic social interactions and customs that we might explore. Already in that class in regards to talking about the invasion of personal space there have been references to how Americans always walk down the wrong side of the sidewalk and how it makes it difficult to give way and interrupts the normal social custom of move left and causes the person to possibly invade your space. I am also taking a Zen Buddhism course which will lend an interesting and new religious perspective as well compared to the primarily Catholic or Christian classes I have had back at Gonzaga. Perhaps the class I am most excited for however is my Microbiology course on Infection and Immunity, which seems to be an epidemiology course. I think it will fit with my interests very well. In general however, the classes are much larger than I’m used to. Walking into the big lecture theaters that could easily sit 400 people and pick a seat among the already 180 people sitting can be very intimidating and just give the whole situation a completely different feel. I am used to the intimate 20-35 person class where you usually know at least several familiar faces. Now I look into a crowd of strangers, but hopefully I’ll come to know some of them. My last class is a Spanish class which is weird to take in NZ and is by far my smallest class. The mix of the Spanish accent with the kiwi accent leads to a very unique pronunciation in that class. Every thing seems to be off to a good start and hopefully will continue to be that way.

Incredibly, my time has a study abroad student has come to an end; I have been back in the States for nearly three weeks and can hardly believe it. And sadly this will be my parting post as a student blogger with IFSA.

My last few days in Costa Rica after traveling in Panama were short and flew by. I spent my time getting some last minute souvenirs for some of my friends back here in the States, retrieving all of my final grades from the university and visiting people.

Two of my favorite memories from those few days in Heredia both involved some of the students from the Biology program there at the university. The first involves the whole of the Ecology class apprehensively waiting for the final grades to be posted. It was taking a long time for the professors and assistants to finish all the final grades, so we spent the time chatting amongst ourselves. I will very much miss the camaraderie of those fellow biology students. The other special time was when my lab group and study buddies from that same Ecology class took me out to dinner at a Caribbean restaurant in San Jose. There were some others there as well. It was a good time.

Of course there were the goodbyes to my family as well: Amalia, Alberto, Mariann, Sophia, Victor, and little Isaac. I spent some time visiting with the directors from IFSA as well. Those two ladies had become so dear to me that I almost wanted to call them Aunt Teresita and Aunt Yanori. Many of the goodbyes to other IFSA students happened right before I left for Panama, but there were still a few hanging about Heredia. One of those goodbyes was to Carli, the only other student who had stayed for the academic year with me. It was a tough goodbye after spending so much time together, experiencing so many new things together, and ultimately after seeing each other grow and change so much as individuals over the course of the year.

It’s funny the things you want to do and see when you know time is short. I remember thinking, “I really want to go see the girls from my plant class last semester one more time” or “Oh, I want to go to one more Wednesday two-for-one movie in the mall” or “I would really like to go sit in the park and people watch one more time” or “I never went that one museum or wildlife refuge. I really want to go there.” They are weird funny things and some of them I was able to do and some I was not able to do, but I tried my very best to live those few days to the full.

I studied abroad during my junior year in high school and I distinctly remember the tearful goodbyes when I left my classmates at the international school. This time, however, as I said all those goodbyes I did not shed one tear. It is not like I am in any way proud of this; it’s just the way I reacted this time and to be perfectly honest it is very unlike me to respond this way. Maybe it happened this way because I am older or maybe it was just a strange defense mechanism to the pain of leaving.

Re-entry is a very strange process. Most students experience what is called reverse culture shock. Everyone knows that during the transition into another culture there is a lot of culture shock, but what many fail to think about is the fact that this can happen when transitioning back into one’s “home” culture after being in another culture for a long period of time. Some cultural habits and customs have been dropped or traded for others while away, but now must be picked up and dusted off and put back in use. This can be personal space, mannerisms, a different language or any number of things.

Most noticeably amongst my reactions to being back home is my general evasion of people, even friends sometimes. I fear the idea of having to put into words all the experiences and feelings that I have acquired over the course of a year. Questions like “What was your favorite thing about Costa Rica?” are superficial at best and expect a one-sentence answer. In my way of thinking this deserves a ten-minute exposition. My feelings are very mixed; a part of me is sad when people didn’t even notice that I was studying abroad and that I have changed, but another part of me also wishes that I could just slip into my home life as if nothing had changed and no time had passed.

There are of course the humorous and awkward cultural mistakes that happen too. Shortly after I arrived home I nearly found myself making the mistake of kissing someone on the cheek—a very normal greeting and farewell gesture in Costa Rica. After conversing with a friend I found myself instinctively grabbing her arm as she turned to leave. Already in motion, I realized what my subconscious was doing and quickly, gracelessly, turned the almost-kiss into an awkward hug. I quickly slipped from the room embarrassed, silently scolding myself, remember, you are in the U.S. They don’t do that here!

I have also found it nearly impossible to not say “chau” as a farewell. Right now, “Bye” sounds like the most unnatural and ridiculous sounding word in the English language. And although perhaps unnoticeable to those around me, I occasionally think of the Spanish word before the English one when I am conversing; sometimes I have trouble locating the English one at all in the sea of words tossing about in my brain. One the very rare occasion one of those Spanish words will slip out along with the English. I feel sure that this is more confusing to my brain than the listener. My confusion from this stems from the following question posed: am I supposed to continue speaking in Spanish or should I go back to English? My once very fine ability for spelling has since gone to pieces as well.

After a few weeks of being home it is getting easier I think. I am sure I will still be caught by moments of nostalgia for a long time. But that is as it should be. Such an experience should be remembered with fondness.

And now, the time has come for me to bid farewell to you my readers, whether faithful, occasional, or here for the first time. I hope you have enjoyed my blog posts—mere tales of gringa in Costa Rica. So here is a kiss on the cheek and a hearty, “!Chau! Espero que le vaya bien.” (Bye! I hope it goes well with you.)

The last weekend in May was what Carli, another IFSA student, and I had affectionately called the “Caribbean Extravaganza.” We—well, it was mostly Carli who—spent a lot of time trying to fit in a weekend as many places along the middle and southern Caribbean coast. In three days we managed to visit four different places: Limón, Cahuita, Puerto Viejo, and Manzinillo.

Limón is a major hotspot for Costa Rican Caribbean culture. It is the capital of the Limón Province and contains a lot history; for example the more abreast reader will recognize the names of Marcus Garvy and the Black Star Line. Once off the bus from San Jose to Limón we put our bags in lockers there at the bus station and then wandered around the city and down to the waterfront. Carli and I were able to eat the traditional rice and beans dish and patacones (double fried smashed plantains) at the old ticket office of the Black Starline. The downstairs is a restaurant and the second floor serves as a museum of sorts. In all honesty, Carli and I didn’t have a lot of time in Limón, but we thoroughly enjoyed our walk around the city.

After a very short two hours we rushed back to the bus station via taxi to pick up our bags and then went to another station to hop the bus to Cahuita. The bus ride goes right along the coast all the way and we got to enjoy all of the vivid blues and greens of the Caribbean. Cahuita is a very small town about one to two hours south of Limón. While there, we made sure to see the Cahuita National Park and the black sand beach. After our early morning hike the next day (May 28) we stopped by an elegant little pancake house for a late breakfast. After four miles of hiking, both of us were parched and hungry. Let’s just say we ate a lot of really delicious food!

Early that afternoon we caught the bus on its way down to Puerto Viejo, a place housing a very unique blend of peoples, music, and foods. There are the typical Caribbean folk, dreadlocks and all, the groups of European and American tourists wandering through the tents and tiny boutiques along the beach road, and the few Costa Rican families there on vacation. Aside from the beachside shops, one can find several other restaurants, a plaza of various shops, numerous hostels, and of course bars. Carli and I didn’t do a whole bunch in Puerto Viejo; we found a coffee shop complete with bakery and by the end of our five hour stay we were almost surprised that they didn’t charge us rent on the table that we had occupied the entire time. Being the weekend and not too far from finals week, both of us had packed some homework. During that five hours though, we discovered that we are hopelessly distracted study-buddies.

The next morning (May 29), we rented bikes from a shop in Puerto Viejo and then rode down to Manzinillo, which is about 15 kilometers away. It’s a lovely ride through the jungle—a jungle that tends to steal over onto the sun-baked sand almost edging close enough to swallow up the surf. Along the way there are several little turn offs to various beaches. We went down almost all of them, taking our time and enjoying the tropical sun that had just taken flight from the horizon.

We didn’t have a bunch of time in Manzinillo, but we each enjoyed a bowl of ice cream and then took a quick dip in the teal waters, before heading back. Manzinillo is perhaps smaller than Cahuita. There is little to no pavement, lots of little mom-and-pop shops, perhaps only one church and then the scattering of houses that fade back into the brush along skid roads. I personally felt that the real Caribbean Costa Rican was most present in Manzinillo than in any of the other places that we visited. However, perhaps it is best said that each place gave us a facet of what the Caribbean culture is as a whole.

Typically the trip back to the Central Valley is boring, long, and uninteresting, no matter where from. But this time, we, along with a bunch of other college-age tourists almost got detained because we did not have our original passports with us. Almost all of us had a photocopy of our passport. It is the general consensus amongst college-age study abroad students that it is best to take just a copy of the passport, because it is very possible that one’s purse, duffle, handbag, etcetera, will get stolen. Being in a foreign country without a passport is not a horror story that I would like to deal with. Fortunately due to the large number of us on the bus without our original passports, the officer there let us go with a warning and a glare. The rest of the trip was uneventful.

And now, moving on to the final adventure while I was in Central America: Panama. This trip took place right after Carli and I finished our final exams for the semester (June 17-21). Before I even went to Costa Rica I knew that somehow, someway I was going to go to Panama. My dream was to go to the Panama Canal. I was very sad to discover that this would not be possible. Throughout the second semester I had made some preliminary plans to go to Panama and see the Canal and all of them ended up falling apart for one reason or another. This trip was only five days total and all of them were spent in a tiny town called Boquete, which sits on the edge of the one and only volcano in Panama. Although Costa Rica has what could be estimated to be as many as three volcanoes per province, humorously Panama only has one in the entire country. Two students, Steve and Chisom, both of whom had been in Costa Rica as a part of the IFSA-Butler program in the fall came back to travel through Costa Rica and Panama and naturally Carli and I paired up with them to go to Panama.

On the trip down I was able to fulfill one of my life-long hopes of finding out what it sounds like when a tire pops on a vehicle. The fact that said popped tire was on the bus and that the event took place in a Central American country definitely made the experience more memorable and interesting. The bus had to be limped to a random repair shop, which looked more like a decrepit barn filled with tank sized rusting metal…things. I honestly don’t know what all that stuff was or could even be compared to. The tire was swapped in about an hour and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

Boquete is a charming clash of tourist friendly shops and the typical Panamanian culture from the nearby “fincas”—ranches—and coffee farms. It’s dropped in between two ridges of dark green mountainous jungle; it is cooler, but still humid, and a come-and-go rain drizzles down during the day with sunbursts every now and again.

We passed our time in Boquete quietly, often spending time together at the hostel either napping, reading, or chatting, although Carli and I did go out one night. We had hoped to see part of a reggae concert there on the edge of town, but later found out that the concert started at 2 a.m.! Exhausted, we left at about 1 a.m. having enjoyed our time dancing. There was a large open area set in front of the stage and DJ kept a steady stream of songs for those gathered to dance to. They ranged from American rock to hip-hop to bachata to typical Panamanian music to meringue and the list goes on. Aside from dancing and having fun, I enjoyed being able to watch the other people—a broad group, age-wise, and to me they seemed very authentic and unassuming.

We as a four-some went and visited various souvenir shops, a botanical garden, and various sodas and coffee shops in and around the small town. We also went out to two different fincas, once to visit some natural hot springs and another time to hike to a waterfall. At both fincas the families charged a small fee for us to be able to pass onto their property and enjoy what nature had left there. The hot springs were not that far from the small farm structures, but walled up nicely with stones from the river, making a nice cozy little hollow pooled up with hot water. On the other finca there was a fairly well kept path leading back up into the hills to the waterfall.

Unlike other trips that I have taken there weren’t any grand adventures. I didn’t scale any volcanoes or go zip-lining or anything, but I enjoyed my time all the same. And after all, getting another stamp in my passport is a definite achievement and good way to end my study abroad travel adventures.

I will be waking up in four hours to leave the country, and I am in packing frenzy mode right now.

A quick introduction: Hi, my name’s Callie, I go to the University of Pennsylvania, where I’m majoring in Hispanic Studies and English. I grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and I usually return in the summers to visit my mom, dad, two younger brothers, and our dog. Carson is a city of about 50,000…big enough to have six Starbucks, but small enough to not be able to go anywhere without running into somebody I know. Having already moved 3,000 miles away from home to live in Philadelphia for the past two years, I feel ready to spend the next six months in Buenos Aires. I have never traveled outside of the United States, so studying abroad has been something I’ve wanted to do for most of my life.

Getting ready to leave has been a flurry of shopping for luggage, clothes, and toiletries. Saying goodbyes, sending emails, making phone calls, lists, multiple trips to the doctor, dentist, bank, figuring out insurance, prescriptions for allergy medication, and on and on. I still don’t have a clear idea as to how I’ll be making phone calls from abroad, how I’ll find adapters for portable electronics so that my laptop/camera charger/hairdryer doesn’t explode, how I’ll sign up for classes, or how I’ll adapt to a new city, culture, and family. I have no idea how I will manage to do all of this (and so much more!) in Spanish.

And yet, I feel calm. Giddy with excitement, but with an underlying sense of calm. I know this will be a venture into the unknown, and I will have to learn as I go. But that, to me, is immensely liberating.