The Coolest Woman You've Never Heard Of

I realize that this blog has been rather silent of late, but I hope that you'll forgive me as I've been trying to keep my head above water in a sea of job applications. That is a journey of a different sort than the ones that I usually write about, and could certainly be a blog on its own. And maybe it will be, who knows? But for now, I'd like to talk about one travel-related topic that is very near and dear to my heart and that I find incredibly inspiring.

It seems that this country has just woken up to the fact that half of its population is comprised of women, women with perspectives and opinions. You would almost think it was a novel concept. But women have been trying to establish a voice for themselves for centuries – the fight to be heard is not novel at all, and progress should not be confined to an election year. In light of the new focus on “women’s issues” recently, I want to share the story of one woman who dug her heels in and demanded to be heard in a time of intense and dominating masculinity.

Cecil Dorrian was born in New York City in 1882. A tomboy in a society still draped in the trappings of Victorianism, she became a star athlete at the all-women’s Barnard College. Perhaps utilizing the opportunity granted by her androgynous name, Dorrian went to work writing for magazines following her graduation from Barnard. First up was an auto magazine, a portent of the thrill that she felt in mobility. Then came travel. From then on Dorrian was hardly in the United States, and the articles that she writes from Italy are infused with her abiding love for getting to know a place and seeing what others do not.

In 1914 Dorrian was working as a theatre agent in London when she started sending descriptions of wartime London to the editors at The Newark Evening News, then the biggest newspaper in New Jersey. Here was something that the News did not have – a firsthand account of the Great War. True, they came from a woman, but the editors were willing to offer Dorrian a foothold as a correspondent. Her intrepid reporting gave her audience an all-access pass to Western Europe in wartime – she traveled to England and Belgium, spent time at the Italian front, and finally landed in France, where she met the tide of American reporters coming over to cover America’s 1917 entrance into the fighting.

Not willing to be swept aside by the influx of male reporters working for the War Office, Dorrian continued to seek out the places no one else was going – the overlooked Belgian front. A government munitions factory where the public was not allowed. Colonial training grounds near Marseilles. The American lines, where she was the first accredited woman reporter. By this time she was the European Correspondent for the News and its only writer to receive a by-line.

In a time before television and web coverage, readers in the United States hung on Dorrian’s every word to learn about the war – she was their eyes and ears. In her article detailing her visit to the ruined fortress of Verdun she implores readers to come with her so that they can see the shattered remains of Verdun and understand what the war means. Readers followed this woman into the war – she was their guide, their voice of authority. Dorrian stepped confidently into a man’s profession and demanded to be heard.

Dorrian continued to report from Europe after the war, but in 1926 she passed away from pneumonia, cutting her career short. Her legacy was cut short, too – she does not appear in any history books and today she is only remembered on dusty reels of microfilm.

But her story deserves to be told, and the incredible work that she did deserves to be recognized. So here’s to Dorrian, and to women like her – those who have been lost to history and those who fight to establish a voice for themselves.

Originally published on Spike the Watercooler.

Falling in Love Again

I have never tried to hide the fact that I fell head over heels in love with England while I studied there for a year. I went in with every expectation of geographical romance and was not disappointed. Sure, we had disagreements over such small matters as the postal system, the practicality of grounding every flight in the country for less than three inches of snow, and the lack of Ranch dressing. No relationship is perfect, after all. 

But for all that, I never wanted to be anywhere else. When I think back to that wistful first love mentioned in this post from Atoms of Thought, my thoughts drift toward England. When I close my eyes I can still picture the streets in Bloomsbury, and remember how cold the water in the River Wye was that May evening that I kicked off my shoes and waded in. I can smell the pub where I was introduced to the Eurovision Song Contest, and hear the tired voice over the intercom in the Tube reminding us to "mind the gap." All of the soft greens and yellows of countless sunsets in Earlham Park blend together and I miss it so much. England will always be the place where I learned what it meant to fall in love, in more ways than one.

When I moved to the Washington, D.C. area earlier this summer it was with the gnawing feeling that I was settling for a place – not settling in but settling for. I could be here, I could play tourist for a while, but I always wished in the back of my mind that I was somewhere else, somewhere across the Atlantic where I had left a very big part of myself. If England was the place where I came into my own, where I was happiest, Alexandria was the site of all my struggles to adjust to life post-college. In a lot of ways, I think that I was resistant to liking Alexandria – it was always supposed to be a temporary stop, a place where I could intern for a few months, figure some things out, and then pack my bags and head somewhere else where I could really settle down. Somewhere like London (because it always works out that easily, right?).

Plus, life in Alexandria was hard – I was broke, lonely, and miserable. What you might call a character-building experience. Why would I like a place that I associated with so much unhappiness? I tried to enjoy it, but after the Friday night I fled home to bury myself in a book because I couldn’t muster the courage to go into a bar by myself for a concert, it just seemed destined for failure.

Alexandria wasn’t going to be brushed off so quickly, however. It happened slowly, imperceptibly, but I began to learn my way around the city so that I didn’t need to rely on the annoyingly clipped voice of my GPS or stand on the street corner in D.C. wielding a map in front of my face. I found the Saturday morning farmers market at the Market Square. I found a favourite (haven’t kicked the British spelling) restaurant, a favourite coffee shop, and a favourite ice cream shop (possibly the most important of the three). When friends came to visit I realized that I knew a lot more than I thought I did, and I saw the city through their eyes – a place chock full of history  and sights to see, a place people come from all over the world to visit. And I live here. But to me it had become rent that needed to be paid and groceries that needed to be purchased.

When my internship ended and I started a new job, I told myself that it was a second start for life here, too. I declared one week my Try New Things Week and challenged myself to explore and take as many opportunities as possible – an outdoor Pilates class in D.C., volunteering at a playground build in Alexandria, having friends over to try new recipes, exploring a new bookstore next to a new ice cream shop (divided loyalties now), discovering Winesday at Whole Foods (best invention ever) – and it was wonderful. Then the real test came. Friday night again, debating with myself whether to stay in with my book or go to a poetry slam in Alexandria, on my own.

I went, and I have never been happier that I didn’t let myself take the easy route. The raw emotion and energy that came from the poets was incredible, like every word hung in the spotlight for a moment and demanded that I listen. I left with a new sense of energy and optimism, like part of myself that had been taking a nap all summer had finally woken up and decided to be present. As I left the poetry slam I was admiring the lovely historic buildings around me, lost in thoughts of how awesome the performances I had just witnessed were. As I made my way towards the lights and sounds on King Street, I realized that the last time I felt this good, this unbendingly positive, was in England. It was like the words were the pieces of my life that had been assembling for weeks, and hearing the poems was hearing the sound of all of those pieces clicking into place. And it hit me that I actually really love it here.

Maybe it’s the real gas lamps outside the row houses in Old Town, or the fact that I hear so many languages while I’m walking down King Street that I’m surprised when I hear an American accent. Maybe it’s the view of the National Mall from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at night. Perhaps it’s the free Pilates classes, concerts, and art exhibitions that I’ve been able to enjoy. Maybe it’s that my favourite Irish pub (because I have one of those, too) is actually owned by an Irishman. It could be the vitality of living in a city teeming with excited visitors and young people who flock to the area to begin their professional careers. Or all of the above. Whatever the reasons, I have fallen in love with Alexandria. Not that I’ll ever stop loving England, but I’ve realized how important it is to love your present, and not to take it for granted.

Author's note: The rough draft of this post was the product of both worlds. I scribbled it in the late afternoon sunshine in a park in Alexandria, reveling in a cup of tea and a scone while I waited to catch the metro into D.C. for the evening. Bliss? I think so.

My D.C. Top Ten

Recently the awesome website GotSaga Travel invited me to write a guest post about ten cool things in my city. I thought that it was an awesome opportunity to reflect on what I've done and discovered during my time in D.C. so far. I can't believe that it's been almost three months! Check out my DC round-up here and let me know what you think!

I should add a newly discovered must-do to the list - the Lincoln Memorial at night is incredible no matter if you're looking at Mr. Lincoln himself or across the reflecting pool at the Washington Monument and the Capitol Building beyond. Wow.

Weekly Wander

I realize that I haven't actually written anything in a while, but I'm working on it! I've been doing a lot of running around and searching for jobs (yay!) lately, but I'm still here and still having adventures. For now, here's my weekly photograph - a taste of what I've been doing!

A window onto the colourful world of Eastern Market on a Sunday morning.

Weekly Wander

Highlighting one photograph a week from my travels past and present. Enjoy!

In keeping with my London theme, seeing as you can't turn on the television these days without seeing an aerial view of Parliament, this was the view from my hotel window on Brick Lane in London's East End. It made me smile, probably too much. It's definitely an area worth exploring - the business district is encroaching quickly, but Brick Lane is abuzz with conversations in different languages and tantalizingly good smells from markets and restaurants.

Weekly Wander

Highlighting one photograph a week from my travels past and present. Enjoy!

Even the laundry looks like a postcard in Dubrovnik, Croatia.

My London: A Photo Essay

Exactly 23 months ago, to the day, I got on a red-eye flight to London. It was my first time in the city after years of wanting to go, and I fully expected to love it. I did love it, but I also hated it sometimes. London is a study in contradictions - English, but completely un-English; grey and rainy except when it's beautiful; alienating and unfriendly but with some of the loveliest people I've ever met; edgy but traditional; proud but sometimes ridiculous, and generally completely incomprehensible but wonderful.
There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss it.

In honour of the Olympics beginning on Friday and all of the coverage that London will be receiving, I've put together a photo essay of the city as I experienced it.

Historic

Of course this has to make it into my experience of London - the interior of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre on the South Bank. 

Nostalgic

Echoes of Britain's imperial past abound in this statue at the Prince Albert Memorial in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.

Blended

London Stone in the City, the point from which all distances were measured in Roman Londoninium. Now it's located in the base of a building in the financial district, a small reminder of the layers of history that lie underneath London, as well as Britain's multicultural past. After the Romans arrived in 43 A.D., England was invaded by Angles, Saxons, Danes, and Normans.Immigrants have always been a part of the fabric of Great Britain, and nowhere is that more apparent than in London.

Glitzy

Victoria Palace Theatre in Victoria, part of London's famous West End.

Grim

A plague graveyard in the City commemorates the decimation of the London's population. 

Full of tourists (myself included)...

But in a literary kind of way...

...And other residents

Pigeons, perhaps London's most populous group, make themselves at home in St. James Park.

Traditional

Looking through the gates of Kensington Palace.

Whimsical

Yes, that shed is flying the Jolly Roger.

Grey

The view from St. Paul's Cathedral.

Colourful

The complete sensory experience at Borough Market, under London Bridge.

Human

Memorial to Princess Diana on the gates outside of Kensington Palace

Puzzling

Because 'cross-walk' is too dull.

 Serious

The clocktower at Parliament in Westminster. The name 'Big Ben' actually refers to the bell inside of the tower, not the clock.

 Sometimes too serious

Ah, the Changing of the Guards. Blocking traffic every morning since Victorian times...

But still able to have fun

This doesn't even really need a caption, does it?

Literary

J. M. Barrie's much-beloved Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.

 Or not...

Stopping to smell the roses in Queen Mary's Garden in Regent's Park led to a mid-afternoon nap in the sunshine for this Londoner.

Brilliant

Parliament from the London Eye.

 Best of luck with the Olympics, London. I can't wait to see what you've got for the world.

Weekly Wander

Highlighting one photograph a week from my travels past and present. Enjoy!

On the street in Naples - what a crazy city! It was gritty, colourful, and terrifying in a 'Dear Lord, how do I cross the street without dying?' kind of way, but it definitely had its own kind of beauty.

A Morning in Eastern Market

As the unofficial centre of D.C.’s Capitol Hill neighbourhood, Eastern Market is a hugely popular destination amongst locals and tourists alike. At 137 years old, it lays claim to the title of D.C.’s oldest continually running market, and is it ever running. From the vendors selling meat and produce in the South Hall Market to the artists hawking their wares in the Weekend Outdoor Market, visitors can spend hours wandering amongst the stalls, eating their way through a delightful morning or afternoon at Eastern Market, which is precisely what I did last weekend.

I met a friend, who knows the city much better than I do, for what I was promised would be the best crepes I’ve ever tasted. Who am I to forgo mouth-watering crepes on a Sunday morning? I tried not to lose her in the crowds as we wove through fruit stands, past colourful swatches of fabric, following our noses to the food carts set up as their own little satellite market. D.C.-dwellers love, love, love food trucks and food carts of all kinds. I myself have pledged my undying loyalty to the Cupcake Truck in New Haven, Connecticut as my first food truck of choice, but I was more than willing to give these a try.

Our final destination was Eastern MarketCrepes, and it did not disappoint. The Crepe Man, Mitchell, puts together some unusual and exceptionally tasty combinations, all nestled in the perfectly poured batter that was inspired by his world travels. My crepe was stuffed with ham, apple, Muenster cheese, and maple syrup, and oh my was it good. I wanted another one as soon as I’d finished! Although he was tucked out of the way, it was clear that the Crepe Man has many loyal followers who come back weekend after weekend. His stall was buzzing the entire time we were there. Now I have to go back to try the donuts and the Indian food that some of his neighbours were selling, although maybe not on the same trip!

Mitchell works his Sunday-morning crepe magic.

After eating our fill of crepe-y goodness, we strolled through the stalls, browsing the painted scenes of the city and the jewellery that taunted our slender wallets. As we wound our way towards South Hall Market, we stopped to enjoy the slices of fresh peaches offered at the fruit stalls.

Exploring Eastern Market was a wonderful way to pass the morning, probably my favourite that I’ve spent in the city so far. The wonderful food certainly helped my experience (I caved and had a post-crepe apple strudel, as well, even though it was the middle of July. No regrets about that life decision), but the atmosphere alone was enjoyable. It really is a hub of the community – there were tourists there, but there were also people doing their weekly produce shopping. It serves as both an international attraction and a small-town farmers market, and it was so interesting to see both of those dynamics at play simultaneously.

One of the things that I really love about D.C. is that market spaces like this were actually a part of Pierre L’Enfant’s design for the city – little green places and squares where the community can gather and come together as a neighbourhood. His forethought gives the city a rather European flair, and has no doubt gone quite a ways in allowing D.C.’s different neighbourhoods to distinguish themselves from one another. 

Weekly Wander

Highlighting one photograph a week from my travels past and present. Enjoy!

Probably my favourite pub name ever. I came across this gem in Victoria, London when I went to see Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace Theatre. This was right before I spilled tea all down my front, incidentally. Always the graceful traveller.

Weekly Wander

As an aspiring travel writer who also happens to have a 9-5 office job (well, internship. I call it a job to make myself feel better), it can be easy to feel like I'm not actually going anywhere sometimes. How am I supposed to write about travel if I'm not really travelling anywhere? That's when I have to remind myself of two things: 1. I live in a pretty awesome city and exploring it on the weekends actually is travelling, at least in my view; and 2. I have had the opportunity to see some really cool places in the travelling that I have done. In that spirit, I've decided to highlight one photograph a week from my travels past and present. So, without further ado, here's my first weekly wander.

Pigeons like sculpture, too - getting up close and personal with Rodin's "Burghers of Calais" in the Hirshorn Sculpture Garden, Washington, D.C.

Yes, It Really Is as Cool as Everyone Says

This weekend I surrendered my Smithsonian virginity. That’s right, I just graduated from college and have been living in D.C. for over a month, and I just visited my first Smithsonian museum.

I was lucky enough to take part in a guided tour of the outside of the museums through work a few weeks ago – the Smithsonian’s horticulturalists led a group of us through the gardens that lend so much character and support to the buildings themselves, but do it in such a way that passers-by hardly notice. Pause for a moment next time you’re outside the National Museum of the American Indian and notice the traditional crops that are planted in the beds in front of the building, and the long grasses on the side. Admire the tee-pee sculpture, which is biodegradable and changes minutely every day. Walk through the various regions of the butterfly garden outside of the Museum of Natural History. They’re beautiful gardens, worthy of a tour in their own right.

But the gardens were not my mission this weekend. First of all, it was too hot to be outside for longer than about thirty seconds, and second, I wanted to see what the Smithsonian is most famous for – the interiors of its museums! I started with the Museum of Natural History, because why wouldn’t you see the museum with dinosaurs first?

Pretty sure this is a bowhead whale, if you were wondering.

Given that it was a very hot weekend in the middle of the summer, the museum was very crowded, and kids were running everywhere. All of the traffic made it difficult to stop and read the text panels, but I had a great time wandering through the exhibit halls just looking at everything – the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton looming over visitors, the sea creatures suspended from the ceiling in the blue light of the Ocean Hall, the wonderful expressions and poses of the animals from Africa and Australia, the glittering ore and gemstones upstairs. The Hope Diamond wasn’t too shabby, either.

As I walked through the museum taking in all of the fascinating creatures and objects on display, it hit me that this museum is actually such stuff as childhood dreams are made on. I mean, what kid at some point in his or her life has not wanted to be a palaeontologist, a marine biologist, or an astronaut?  My early career aspirations included all three before I realized that Shakespeare was actually more up my alley. My brother was our resident dinosaur expert, while I could rattle of all of the baleen whales once upon a time. Coming to a place where all of that is on display, where there are signs saying “please touch,” is pure magic for those childhood imaginings.

It was so refreshing to see that dinosaurs are still as big a draw as ever. After spending a weekend listening to my nine-year-old cousin talk about nothing but his Nintendo whatchamacallit, I was so glad to see kids with their noses pressed against the insect tanks and dragging their parents to see the stuffed lions. And the Smithsonian has done a nice job of integrating technology into the exhibits as a kid-friendly learning tool. In one room I overheard a young boy who was playing with meteor trajectories on a touch-screen say tentatively, “Mom? I think I just blew up the earth...”

 It’s a huge space where kids (of all ages) can learn and also let their imaginations run wild. And that’s pretty awesome.

Long live the dinosaurs.

Still as cool as ever.

In Which I Feel *gasp* Patriotic

I have been an ex-pat in the making since the third grade, when I decided that I wanted to move to Switzerland when I grew up because it was always neutral. And because I wanted to be Heidi. In the early drafts of my senior thesis on travel writing, one of my friends kindly reminded me that my line of argument could  not be that we should all move to Europe. In short, I am not the most patriotic American.* I don’t like Toby Keith songs. I’ve finally come around to liking apple pie, but I think that’s my sweet tooth more than a latent sense of nationality exerting itself.  

So it was with mixed feelings that I approached Independence Day (which one of my friends referred to as “Traitor’s Day”) in Washington, D.C. It being the first July I’ve spent in our nation’s capitol, I knew that I had to go see the fireworks on the National Mall, along with everyone else and their brother. As my friends and I found standing room at the Capitol, I was sceptical, especially when I saw a rather drunk (or maybe the heat had just got to him) gentleman waving an American flag and trying desperately to lead a sing-along of “The Star Spangled Banner.” Francis Scott Key was probably rolling over in his grave at that.

It’s hard to feel disenchanted watching twilight steal over the Mall, however. The white stone of the Capitol was rosy in the setting sun, and the haze made the avenue stretched in front of us deep purple. In the distance, the red lights of the Washington Monument blinked like two eyes surveying the scene. It was beautiful.

Then, the fireworks started. Watching bursts of red and gold silhouette the Washington Monument while strains of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” drift from the other side of the Capitol was something else. I started to remember other Fourth of Julys with my family when I was younger, my brother covering his ears because he hated the noise and my parents’ friend telling us to look really hard for the black fireworks, because those were the best ones. As I let myself get swept up in the moment (and what a moment it was), I thought that maybe this country is alright. Yes, it has its fair share of problems, many of them centred in the building that I was standing next to, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.

In honour of this reconnection, here are some of my favourite aspects of travelling in America (you’ll just have to excuse the less than American spelling, I’m afraid. It’s just second nature now):

Road trips – The love of packing into a car and driving for an endlessly long time for pleasure seems to be a distinctly American concept. We’re a country of drivers, and we feel threatened if that individual mobility is limited in any way. I think that’s one of the reasons that public transportation hasn’t caught on here like it has in other countries – we love driving too much. I remember my friends in England being dumbfounded that I drove six hours to get home from university. To them, three hours was an incredibly long trip. But I love driving. Getting behind the wheel with miles of open highway stretched out in front of me, turning up the radio – it’s a great feeling. And it’s a great way to see this beautiful country of ours. Except on I-95 in New Jersey. There is nothing beautiful about that.

It’s huge – To go along with my love of road trips, I love how big this country is. That may seem strange, but it’s really amazing to me that the continental United States alone is home to the beautiful woodlands and sea shore of Acadia National Park in Maine, the rolling green hills and fields of Pennsylvania, the stunning Rocky Mountains, the glaciers of Yellowstone, and the towering redwood trees of California. It’s incredible, and we’re so lucky to be able to see all of those amazing places without needing a passport.

Manitou Springs, Colorado

The world’s table – The diversity of landscapes is matched by the diversity of food here. After spending a year abroad without access to good Mexican food, I’ve come to really appreciate how you can find any type of cuisine here. This doesn’t hold true for everywhere, of course – where I grew up you could either get pizza or Chinese take away – but in Alexandria alone I have an astonishing array of choices: Indian, Irish, English (they’re different), Italian, Japanese, Thai,  Ethiopian, Spanish, Middle Eastern, the list goes on and on. It’s wonderful, and I love that I can give my taste buds a vacation without going anywhere. Also, America is the home of ranch dressing and maple syrup, two of my favourite things in the world. I realize that Canada can also claim maple syrup, but I am a New Englander born and raised, and we get our syrup from farmer’s markets in the summer and sugarhouses in the spring. And maple fluff? Be still my heart.

Ice cream, you scream – Not all ice cream shops are created equal, as anyone who has ever tried to buy ice cream in the United Kingdom will know. And America knows how to do ice cream shops. It has to be hard, it has to be scooped out, and there need to be more than two flavour options. I love trying different ice cream flavours when I travel, especially when they’re unique to the particular establishment where I find myself. Perfect example? Cornbread ice cream at Leo’s in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. It shouldn’t work, but it really does.

NPR – Why is this on the list of things that I love about travel in the United States? Well, mostly because I love NPR. But I also love that I can tune in anywhere in the country and get the local station while keeping up on my current events. It’s really a wonderful thing. And on those long road trips, it’s nice to have someone talking to me. It breaks up my terrible singing along to my iPod.

What are some of your favourite aspects of travel Stateside? Where are some of the best places you’ve visited in the fifty states?

*Just to clarify, I fully support our armed services and have nothing but the utmost respect for those men and women who have heeded the call of patriotism and chosen to serve their country. 

Weekly Wander

The Cadet Chapel at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado (before the wildfires). The architecture is designed to reflect both the planes flown by the men and women who worship here, as well as the surrounding mountains. Happy Fourth of July!

Nature or Nurture?

Have you ever had that feeling that the universe is conspiring to bring something to your attention? The same theme keeps coming up, again and again, in places and ways that have no real relation to each other, but if you fill in the gaps between those instances, the metaphorical light bulb can go off.

For me lately this uncanny theme has been how people connect with one another. As E. M. Forster famously wrote in Howard’s End, “Only connect.” And let me tell you, Forster knew a thing or two about connection. The aspect of connection that has occupied my thoughts most recently is the ways people learn from one another and emulate, either consciously or unconsciously, the people whom they admire or are close to (be this good or bad).

I read another blogger’s post recently on what inspires him to travel (find it here), which of course led me to think on my own travel inspiration. I’ve always loved to move. For as long as I can remember, I have been incapable of sitting still and I have always loved long car trips to new places (airplanes not so much, but I’m learning to deal with that). For a long time I thought that it was a case of wanderlust born of living in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

But this particular self-reflective moment happened to coincide with my trying to figure out what I wanted to say at my grandfather’s memorial service this past weekend. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my love of travel goes much deeper than my small-town roots – it was something that I learned from my grandfather.

He also came from a small-town – he grew up on a farm during the Great Depression and the Second World War, and then worked as a logger and a mechanic to support his family. Once he retired, he and my grandmother literally set about seeing the world. I lived near an airport, so they would come to stay with us for a few days before setting of on one of their many trips, to Hawaii (he would sit and talk with the veterans on the Arizona for hours), Taiwan, Australia, New Zealand, and all over the Bavarian Alps.

I grew up associating my grandfather with travel, and as I grew older and started travelling on my own, that’s how he and I connected. The first time that I went to Europe he mailed me their photo albums from Germany, Austria, and Switzerland so that I could look at what he and my grandmother had seen and enjoyed there as I retraced their steps. When I spent a year “studying” abroad and travelling all over Europe, he read this blog more than anyone and I sent him postcards from every city that I visited.

It wasn’t until I started thinking about his memorial service that I realized how much of my grandfather’s love for travel I’ve absorbed, because it happened without my noticing it. I’ve been lucky because my parents have always been keen on travel and we’ve taken some wonderful holidays. I mean, I got back from a year of travelling only to be able to spend two weeks in Colorado with my family last year. But it was only in talking to my dad this weekend that I saw that his own interest in travel came from my grandfather, and in turn passed to me. Travel is a family value, essentially, and now it’s become a legacy.       

Is it possible to “catch” wanderlust? I’m sure that it is. That’s what I thought happened to me, but now I realize that it’s actually been an integral part of my life ever since my parents stuck me in a car seat to drive the eighteen or so hours to South Carolina when I was two years old. But I like to believe that people can grow into anything, such as football fans (shamelessly advertising my last post) or world travellers. I’d love to hear other opinions and stories about where your love for travel, or any other passions that you have, comes from if you care to join me in my musings.

Confessions of a Football Fan in Training

Earlier this week I did something that I’ve never done before: I followed a live blog of a sporting event online. What’s more, I was interested in it. 

I should start by admitting that sports are not my thing. Not even a little bit. I have distinct memories of watching the NCAA basketball tournament as a kid, wondering why my dad was yelling at the athletes when they obviously couldn’t hear him through the television. I just didn’t get it. I still don’t really get it. So, naturally, I wound up dating a sports fanatic who is on a one-man quest to turn me into a football fan. And by football, I mean soccer, so keep up, fellow Americans. It really is the more logical term, let’s be honest. The 2012 UEFA European Football Championship (Euro 2012) has given him the perfect opportunity.

After learning the roster and being quizzed on all of the players (I failed fairly spectacularly, but I’m still learning), it was time to watch my first match, England versus Sweden (naturally). I made it to Murphy’s, a wonderful Irish pub in Old Town Alexandria, about twenty minutes into the first half. As I walked into the comfortable, dimly lit room, I saw a surprising number of people sitting at the bar, eyes glued to the men in shorts running around on the television screen.

It took me a while to get into the game and to get warmed up to anywhere near the level of the rather vocal English contingent surrounding me. Between the young man next to me who alternated between tearing his hair out and yelling victory cries that would have made Braveheart proud, and the older gentleman behind me who was wheezing, “C’mon, one more! One more – ah, you’re useless,” I was as much swept up in the fans as I was in the football. As I watched the people around me, all hanging onto the action thousands of miles away with bated breath, I began to wonder if it was possible to become a football fan even if you weren’t raised watching “men in shorts kicking a pig’s bladder,” as my boyfriend has so eloquently described it (I mean, how could you resist?). Maybe it was the pint I was nursing, maybe it was the atmosphere, but even as I wondered this I found myself being drawn into the game. I clapped when England scored, I held my breath whenever Ibrahimovic got too close to the goal. I was actually getting into it.

What I learned in that pub is that a huge part of the world is following what’s going on in Poland and Ukraine right now. Rosie Spinks makes a really good point on the Matador Network when she points out that football is the lingua franca of the sports world, so even non-sports fans should try to at least stay on the periphery. Need more convincing? Goal.com has some “alternative” reasons to follow the tournament.

Keeping up with what’s happening at Euro 2012 is keeping up with current events and knowing what’s going on in the world. And it can be addictive, as I found out while I was cringing (quietly) at my desk on Tuesday as BBC Sport (British coverage is delightful because the commentators do things like call the stadium “a cauldron of noise” and characterize a poor showing by saying, “England aren’t on the rack yet, but they are on the steps to the dungeon.”) informed me that John Terry had blocked yet another Ukrainian attempt to get to the goal.

Is it possible to become a football fan? I’m still not sure, but I think that I’m on my way to finding out. See you at the pub on Sunday.

Silence is Golden

“No, you ask. You can get away with anything in this country.”

Fresh from a move to the Metro D.C. area from rural New England a few weeks ago, I was enjoying playing the tourist with my boyfriend, who came to visit and to help me settle into my new surroundings. Travelling with him was both wonderful and very humbling. The thing is, he’s British – we’re talking raised on tea and cricket, has never seen a Disney movie apart from Mary Poppins, can’t pronounce “schedule” British. And his accent is like magic Stateside. Even my mother wants him to record an audiobook for her. Servers in restaurants – both men and women – lingered at our table much longer than necessary, making inane conversation just to keep him talking. Girls would give him an extra big smile whenever he said, “Cheers!” instead of a boring old “Thank you.” Guides took an interest in us and were extra friendly. 

I quickly realized that this could work to our advantage. Whenever we wanted to know about student discounts or ask a touristy question, I sent Chris in first so that he could charm the socks of the woman at the ticket counter. It was great provided I kept my mouth shut to hide my own lacklustre American accent. As long as I let Chris do the talking, doors that I didn’t even know existed were opened to us.

With five minutes to go before the 1:30 tour of the U.S. Capitol began, we could not figure out for the life of us how to navigate the line dividers blocking us from the theatre where the tour started. There was simply no entrance. After triple-checking to make sure that we weren’t missing the obvious, I sent Chris to do his thing.

“Excuse me, but where do we get in the queue for the half-one tour? There doesn’t seem to be an entrance.”

The docent didn’t respond for several seconds, but just stared at Chris, eyebrows raised slightly. I began to worry that he was going to chide us for being complete idiots and point out the very clear entry mere feet from where we were standing. I glanced nervously at Chris.

But then: “Half-one! That’s the best anyone’s ever said that! Did you hear that?” He turned to the docent next to him, positively beaming. “You know what? That was so good that you can just get right into the front of this line here!”

A bit taken aback, we stepped to the front of the queue. The two docents fawned over Chris, asking him where he was from, how he liked the States, the usual. This was familiar territory. Then, one of them turned to me and eagerly asked the fatal question: “So, are you from England, too?”

Sigh. Curse you, inability to fake an accent. “No, I’m from Connecticut.”

Wait for it... A crestfallen, “Oh” was all that ever greeted this statement. Conversation killer extraordinaire. They both quickly lost interest and turned away, disappointed that I was just another American.

Yep. Cheers.

On the Road Again! (kind of)

It's been exactly one year and one week since I left Norwich, England, at the end of my year studying abroad. To celebrate, I'm starting my blog up again. I've learned a lot over the past year - about writing, relationships, the world, time differences, myself, and travelling. Now, fresh out of college with a bit more experience and perspective under my belt than when I started this blog (key phrase there being 'a bit'), I'm taking on Washington, D.C., my new home. That's right, I'm learning how to get a farecard from the ticket machine in the Metro station, wondering who on earth named "Foggy Bottom," and taking in a few monuments, museums, and some free music (trying desperately for the alliteration there) along the way. Ready to join me for more misadventures?