The Circle Game

Here's a post that I started last week and am finishing in the airport. The beginning of my attempt to find closure.
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I took my last final on Wednesday, had my last day of work on Thursday. I am so very excited to come home, but leaving Parliament for the last time was a little heartbreaking. Yesterday, I came in to find a Starbucks gingerbread latte (from Zoe)  and a small stack of Christmas cards from my co-workers on my desk. In return, I brought in the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I had baked the night before as my final goodbye present ("You're a real American!" said the MP next door upon tasting one). And I realized: I'm going to miss this.

What else will I miss about London? The walk to school (even on the days that it seemed interminably long), the sights and sounds of a city waking up in the morning. Trafalgar Square filled with tourists who shyly ask you to take their picture in broken English. Exmouth Market, whose competing food stalls waft exotic, mouthwatering scents over the whole block. Seven Dials, with its expensive and delightful shops, including vintage stores that sell American letter jackets as rare anomalies. Mostly, though, I think I'll miss the community we formed in London. 150 students living in two adjacent buildings, make-believing we are real people with little households to come home to at night. In a sense, it wasn't make-believe at all, because we did create a place that felt like a home. One of my very favorite parts of the day was coming back to the flats around 6:00 pm and climbing the six flights of stairs as the smell of cooking and strains of conversation escaped from the doors around me.

On the one hand, we didn't live fully as Londoners because we always had our own little safety net of familiarity to fall back into. On the other hand, though, we experienced it all and were able to recuperate and empathize when small parts of Europe bothered us. We commiserated about the high prices, the great effort involved in getting from one place to another, and the polite but sometimes distant people. We marveled at the architectural splendors, the eccentricities of the culture, and the independence that came with living in a city sans parietals.

What will it be like when we go back to the US? Marvelous and comfortable. Surprising. Disconcerting. But right now, it sounds completely wonderful. I'm coming back to London someday, and when I do I can't wait to rediscover the places I went and the shortcuts I took, to tell stories of memories that I have of the park to the right or the statue up ahead. Before I can return, though, I must leave, which is to say I must return to a different place: home. Leaving is returning.


"You say goodbye and I say hello / I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello..." 


And on that note, bye for now.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Aaaand here we are. Back at the flats, which I thought I would never see again, trying to get out of Britain by any means possible. Some have taken a train to the coast, hopped on a ferry to Ireland, and boarded a plane in Dublin bound for any city in the US-- things always look more hopeful from the same continent. Each day, a few more people make it out, and others disappear to the airport for hours only to return, wilted and dejected, after yet another flight is cancelled for no apparent reason. This is a screw-up of epic proportions. I'm thankful we have accommodations, which is more than the poor people camping out in tents at Heathrow can say. The University staff in London has been great, doing all they can to make sure we have beds, towels, and our sanity. 

You might think being "stranded" in London is not a punishment at all. And there are definitely worse places to be stuck. But even with a city to explore, we said our goodbyes and had our final hurrah last week as we mentally prepared to return to the States. Most of us are staying close to our temporary homes, looking at flight timetables and calling home. I'm finally venturing out today on a mission to find a Christmas sweater. Then I'll probably take a nap and make sure everything is packed before I leave at 3 AM to make a 7:00 flight to Frankfurt, Germany, where I will get a connection to Detroit. Ironic how I have to go east in order to go west. It's kind of like a game of chess, trying to decide which risks to take and when to just cut your losses. I'm hoping, praying, trying to believe that I will make it out. I know this all sounds dramatic, but the so-called "Big Freeze" (a tiny chill by American standards) is vying to make the history books.

On the bright side, it's cozy inside, I'm surrounded by friends, and there are endless downloaded movies to be watched. But I'd rather be watching them at home. And I will be. After all, Buetow Rule #1 is "never give up" (or "be happy" or "respect your parents," depending on Dad's mood when he recites them). I will keep on truckin' and I WILL get home tomorrow. I'm almost afraid to post this because it might be bad luck, but then, if I don't fully believe in success, how will it ever happen?

America, here I come. 

I would walk 1,000 miles (I really would, I might get there sooner)

I was working on my farewell post to London. But it looks like I won't be saying farewell yet, as Heathrow cancelled all its flights this weekend and I am currently without a ticket home. This is so frustrating, I have been stuck in a hotel next to the airport for two days and I just want to be home. All 130 of us are in the same situation, slowly getting flights rebooked for later in the week. For now, we're all pretty upset. One of the biggest airports in the world can't handle three inches of snow. My Midwester self scoffs at the very thought.

In the meantime, to combat boredom, frustration, and the maddeningly repetitive voice on the United Airlines hold line, I will probably be posting a lot. Humour me with comments and distractions, please.

I hope to see you all soon.

Love,

Katie

In Dublin's fair city, the girls are so pretty

I knew I was going to like Dublin when I walked into the hostel and found an old converted mansion with Yeats quotes painted on the walls. These were by far the nicest accommodations of any of my journeys, with crystal chandeliers, down comforters in the spacious yet cozy ten-person room, and the full complimentary Irish breakfast in the morning. After a full day of class, traveling (there's always still a very long way to go after you land at the airport) and Guinness with dinner, I lay in my warm bed listening to the rain patter softly onto the roof and the gentle breathing from the sleepers around me, and I felt more at home than I had in a long time. 

That's the thing that struck me most about Ireland: the sense that I really fit in. Italy was beautiful, Germany was lively, France was sophisticated, but no matter how much I enjoyed these places I still felt like an outsider. In Ireland, though, I could relax completely and not worry about being judged for asking the wrong question or taking the bus in the opposite direction. In Ireland, people are practical and welcoming and so very kind. The waitress at the pub will make sure you get dinner when you're starving after a 4-hour journey. The bus driver at the Cliffs of Moher, seeing you at the cafe on his break, will make sure you know how you're leaving because his bus is the last to leave for several hours. Common-sense kindness is more touching than expensive gifts or dramatic praise.

With the themes of comfort and hospitality illuminating the whole trip, each adventure became even more special. The walking tour of Dublin took us to Trinity College, with the golden Book of Kells; Dublin Castle, where the statue of justice is not blind but accusatory, a remnant from the English imperialism of the past; and the Temple Bar, filed with trendy college pubs and a rising art scene. Dublin is a very walkable city, a welcome relief after the overwhelming expanses of London. And even though it was cold and rainy, some new socks and a bowl of soup warmed me right up.

I could easily have spent more time in Dublin, but the next evening we took a four-hour bus ride to Galway, our launching point for the CLiffs of Moher the next day. I admit, this was probably not the wisest of itineraries, as the tiny taste of Galway only left me wanting more than I could possibly fit. The birthplace of the claddagh is a picturesque seaside village, where seagulls screech and moss covers the grey stone walls. We managed to fit in mass in Gaelic before making a mad dash to the bus with our bags to travel further west to the Cliffs of Moher.

This day trip was one of my favorites of the semester. The cliffs, in the running for the 7 natural wonders of the world, are where the world just ends. The lush green grass grows right up to the very edge, until the stone drops in a clear line to the sea 700 feet below. Despite the signs advising otherwise, the brave visitor can hop the fence and walk or crawl to this fantastical edge, the boundary between land and sky and sea. (Indeed, several people each year are swept to their death by an unexpected gust of wind. Save one lone cowboy-hatted figure, though, no one that I saw dared to dangle their feet off the edge, instead electing to keep a safe distance from the end of all things.)

I can't do the scene justice, but I will try. Imagine a rolling green countryside with low stone walls to divide the pastures. Then, look at the ocean, simultaneously azure and stormy grey, frothy where the waves pound the stone, calm further out where a few ferries slowly cross the horizon. Tilt your head up to the sky, so blue to the east and ominous to the west. In the distance, you can see the rain falling over the water-- probably miles away, but distances lose their meaning from such a height. The tower of an old castle reaches to the clouds drifting across the calmer half of the heavens, which let rays of sunlight miraculously pierce the water in small bursts of glory. There is so much to see, and yet it all fits together seamlessly. It's a floor-to-ceiling painting that belongs on the wall of the Met, but unimaginably more beautiful. 

After absorbing all the surrounding beauty (an impossible task, given the sheer amount of it), we embarked upon another bus ride to Ennis, where we ate dinner at a lovely inn and braced ourselves for a very long journey home. No matter how many interminable late-night and early-morning trips we book, always vowing we'll never do it again, we always seem to end up traveling at the ungodly hours of darkness. Another bus, a plane, a bus, a long walk... and voila, home by 2 AM. Did all of that really happen in 48 hours? Somehow, it did.

I know some people scoff at the way we operate, manically scavenging for major sites, not taking adequate time to admire one before moving onto the next. But that's the nature of travel when you are blessed with so many incredible possibilities. I don't regret any of it. I would love to return to Ireland some day and listen to the music and talk to the people, to walk the village streets before 10 in the morning and read a book on a park bench. Someday I will. For now, I'll develop my pictures on my disposable cameras (the result of the false belief that I had lost the power chord for my digital; it's kind of exciting not knowing if the final products will look like crap or not) and I'll hum the folk tunes in my head. And I'll remember that Ireland will welcome me back. 

A theft, a hike, and a sort-of homecoming

The last leg of fall break was Cinqe Terre, the Italian Riveiera. This series of 5 picturesque villages, Riomaggiore, Manarola, Vernazza, Monterosso, and... (the fifth one that starts with a C?) cling on the edges of cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. The narrow, many-storied houses, in pastel rainbow colors, huddle next to each other like childhood friends peeking into a Christmas gift box while mom isn't looking. The Via dell'Amore, a rocky footpath spanning roughly 5 miles of rugged hillside, connects tvillages-- it's a tough hike, but well worth the effort for the amazing views and the pesto and gelato breaks along the way. The story goes that the "Path of Love" gained its name from the many courtships that arose when the trail connected the nearby but isolated villages in the years before WWII. Now, couples write their initials on locks and attach them in a chain along the railing overlooking the sea, creating an image of inter-connected love that makes the romantic swoon and the cynic gag. PErsonally, I thought it was a little overdone, but very sweet. And you can't beat the views when the early afternoon sun beats down on the rainbow houses, illuminates the azure sea, traces the orderly vineyard rows on the hillside, and embraces your bare arms, making you happy to be alive.

But wait... there's more! Despite my idyllic descriptions, Italy is not a place limited to love, beauty and ice cream. There's a dark side... [cue the dramatic music]. Remember that Venice-infused dae on the train to Cinqe Terre? Well, I was jolted out of it by an innocent-looking 12 year old girl, who distracted me with a strange language while her friend reached behind my seat and plucked my wallet from my purse. I realized what had happened as they bolted off the train and thought about pursuing them, but it was dark out, I didn't know where I was, and they disappeared into the night. Cash, credit cards,  library card, family photo, all gone. Luckily, my passport was in another part of my bag, so it wasn't a compelte disaster. It was an unfortunate incident, to be sure, especially as my parents were going to meet me in London in a few days, and as their credit card was connected to mine, they had to cancel their cards as well. Not the best way to greet the people who gave you... life. Hmmm. Oh dear.

I maintain that I was being very careful and that this could have happened to anyone. I understand my mother's conern that I ws on the train alone, which I concede was stupid. But I've made my ammends, I've learned my lesson, and all I can do is hope that moeny went to people who truly needed it. Needless to say, perspective only comes with time. Upon arriving in Cinqe Terre and walking up a dark hill to met my friends, I was beyond distraught. So they did what any good friends would do... lended me their international phone to call USAA and administered appropriate amounts of wine. OVer the next few days, I felt a slight cloud hanging over me. Luckily, I had put down the payment for a hostel and the cash with which my friends paid me back as enough to et through the week. I should put in a candid observation about the state of law enforcement in Italy as well. Useless. There are about 2.5 police forces in the country: the polizia (civil police), the carabinieri (military police), and the guys who work at the train station and claim to be police as well. There are no clear distinctions between the three forces, because none of them are ever open when yu need them to be. At 11 am on a Thursday morning, the Riomaggiore polizia  station was ominously dark and empty. The impresive, intimidating, and gated carabinieri headquarters at the top of the hill was open, but the friendly officers didn't really speak English and told me to go to the train police. Why I had to physically go there instead of having them make a telephone call is still beyond  me, as it is a known fact that carabinieri do nothing but stand on corners smoking cigarettes and lookig good in their uniforms. Fact.

So I went to the train station in the next town (the one in Riomaggiore was so small and understaffed that even the ticket machine stopped working after dinner. I found the police in their unglamorous office next to the tracks. The middle aged officer looked at me suspiciously, decided my wallet really had been stolen, and handed me the English-language version of a lost or stolen object report with a fill-in-the-blank date of "19__." Clearly this thing was never to see the light of day again after being put into the computer by a supposedly English-speaking deputy. But closure i everything, and at least it made me feel like I was able to do something about the situation.

The journey ended with a trip to Porto Venere, a rustic, gorgeous, slightly desolate port town just north of Riomaggiore, where we saw Byron's favorite writing haunt and were serenaded by a red-faced trio of Italian singers. A fond farewell to Bella Italia. Then, it was on to the Milan airport, where we slept fitfully overnight on airport seats and caught the first plane to London, bleary-eyed and happy to be home. "Home." No, just home. Or that's what it felt like.

In its entirety, fall break was an adventure that I greatly enjoyed despite a few notable moments of hysteria. I learned to navigate cities even when I can't speak the language, I learned how to bear impossibly early trains and pack efficiently and go with the strange, surprising direction of the wind. I hope that doesn't sound too painfully hippy-ish, but I guess what I'm trying to say is the whole experience made me accept the way things are and make the best of a situation. And while it was a valuable lesson to learn, it was indescribably lovely to return to London, safe and sound, and hug my parents for the first time in several months. Some things beat even Venice.

December December I'll always remember

It's 12:49 AM, I have a paper to edit and some serious sleep to catch up on. But first, I have to capture this moment. It's one of those that I just don't ever want to forget.

It never snows in London. But it snowed yesterday. And today. It's snowing now. Outside, the big fluffy white flakes are falling with purpose, illuminated by the street lamps as they cover the awning of the Betsey Trotwood pub across from my window. The sidewalks are covered in a thin icing of white and, despite the occasional cars and busses meandering down the street, it is wonderfully calm.

Inside my (relatively) clean flat, I'm sitting long-ways on a comfy red couch. Only a few lights are on, including the string of Christmas lights that we draped across the windows, ensuring maximum visibility from the street. The ornaments on the small fake tree in the corner reflect the colored pinpricks of light; the roses in their wine-bottle vases, the centerpieces from our memorable Thanksgiving feast, remind me of some Italian family's Sunday dinner, filled with laughter and the scent of good food.

I am so very cozy, sitting here and watching the sky lovingly sugar the earth. I watch the same process from my room at home, I look out over my left shoulder in the same exact way. I've seen the seasons change, and I can't believe it. Wasn't it yesterday I walked to school in a skirt and t-shirt? Or was it 4 months ago? A year? It all seems the same. Because right now, it's snowing, it always has been, and that's what I always want it to do.

I want to go home. I want to stay here. I don't know what I want, except to cherish this moment and remember how happy I can be when nothing is happening at all and I just look out on the world.