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?

Post England Wrap Up

It’s hard to believe that one year ago I was counting down the days until my parents dropped me at Newark Airport and I took off for ten months in England. Now, having lived those ten months, I’m still learning how to integrate everything that I experienced and learned abroad with my life here.

How do you explain a year of your life? How do you share all of the things that you did, all of the places you saw, the people you met, all of the things that you learned, with people who weren’t there living it with you? I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t really, because no matter how hard you try to explain, no matter how detailed your account, people are either going to lose interest quickly in your multi-hour tell-all or you’ll find yourself generalizing so much that you don’t say much of anything at all. But I think that’s okay. Going abroad for a year is actually a very selfish thing in the sense that you do it entirely for yourself, so that you can experience a new way of life, meet new people, see new places and expand your own horizons. And yes, many times the best part of an experience is sharing it with the people you love, and I certainly didn’t stop doing that, as my verbose blog posts can attest to. But part of it is absorbing the experience yourself and letting it change you, and that part is inherently yours. It changes your life, your attitudes and opinions, and no one else can have the same interpretation that you do, even if they lived it with you. The things that I did and felt in England have shaped me in ways that I don’t even know in their full extent yet, and explaining that is next to impossible.

This became evident in the car on the way home from Newark. My mom asked me what I missed most about England, and I was at a complete loss for words. This is partly because I’d been travelling for eighteen hours on next to no sleep after saying goodbye to several of my best friends, only to find myself at a rest stop in New Jersey, of all places. Let me tell you, a rest stop on the New Jersey highway is not a gentle transition back into America. Oh man. But there weren’t really words to describe what I missed, which was the people, the scenery, and just the Englishness of England. See? That doesn’t even make sense now, and I’ve had almost two months to think about it. So I gave some horribly inadequate answer like, “Everything,” and went back to staring in dismay at all of the obese people in track bottoms standing in line at various fast food vendors.

I’ve just spent a lot of space explaining to you that there’s a lot that I can’t tell you. Awesome. So what can I tell you? I can tell you that this was without a doubt the most incredible year of my life, and that I absolutely fell in love with England. It’s kind of like a quirky relative – full of idiosyncrasies and absurdities that can be trying at times, but you learn to look past that because they’re family and you love them for all of their quirks, even the fact that there’s no tape in the post offices and three inches of snow results in apocalyptic-type conditions. But it’s okay, because there’s really good tea and chocolate.

Apart from all of the seeing and doing and picture-taking that I was able to do this year (most of which has made its way to this blog), I learned so much about myself and about how to be a person in the world. Yes, technically I went abroad to take classes and do some academic learning (that’s what I had to put on the application, anyway), but most of the education that I got this year did not take place in the classroom. I learned how to plan trips, how to navigate airports and public transportation, not just in English but in other languages as well, I attempted, with varying success, to stick to a budget, and I did a lot of things for myself. These are all invaluable lessons, but they’re only part of what I learned.

I also discovered so much about myself. I have a better idea of what I want out of life now, and maybe even what I want to do with myself after this great thing called college comes to an end in a year. Maybe. But I feel that I grew up a lot and grew into myself more, if that makes sense. I learned to embrace the more spontaneous, ridiculous side of myself, which I honestly thought that I had lost. I know that sounds crazy – I head to the land of people famous for keeping a stiff upper lip and for doing everything properly and get in touch with my ridiculous side. But I was allowed to be the excited American all year, and it was so freeing and wonderful. Going to college taught me that I can’t change the essentials of who I am. Going to England showed me that I shouldn’t want to – I just have to embrace them. And yes, I was laughed at. A lot. But I was laughing, too.

I’m proud of myself for that – that I let myself go and got invested and fell in love with the full knowledge that I would have to leave, and that it would hurt when I did. But that didn’t stop me. For once, I didn’t choose the safe option, which is really what I think study abroad can teach you if you let it. That’s the key, though – you have to be open to all of those experiences and you have to want to grow and change, otherwise you can just recreate your life at home, only with an accent. And home is good, home is wonderful. But it’s hard to appreciate if you don’t distance yourself from it sometimes.

I just finished reading Bill Bryson’s book Notes from a Small Island, an account of his travels through Britain before he and his family moved to America, where he was born, after living in England for twenty years. It was essentially a personal letter to Britain in which Bryson acknowledged its flaws but more or less declared his undying love for its people, landscape, and culture. I connected with it on so many levels, and I think that he puts it better than I could ever do (you’re also probably quite sick of reading my writing by now, so this will mix it up a little bit). This excerpt is from the very end of the book, at the close of Bryson’s farewell tour:
“What a wondrous place this was – crazy as all get-out, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket? Who else would have a constitutional form of government but no written constitution, call private schools public schools, think it not the least bit odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, seat the chief officer of the House of Lords on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? . . . Who else could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, Salisbury Cathedral, double-decker buses, and the chocolate digestive biscuit? Wherever else would I find a view like this? Nowhere, of course.
All this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you. And then I turned from the gate and got into the car and knew without doubt that I would be back.” (From Bill Bryson, Notes from a Small Island [New York: Avon Books, Inc., 1995] 316-17.)

I know exactly what he means.

All that’s really left for me to do is to say thank you to the people who made this past year what it was, and to the people who kept up with my adventures through my sometimes infrequent and tangential blog posts. I couldn’t have done this without any of you, so thank you so much. Flatmates, friends – I love you all so much and I miss you all of the time. But I know that, like Bill Bryson, I’ll be back. And I’m sleeping on your couch when I get there.