Spring Break, Part C: Normandy, France

The capital c and semicolon look like a big smiley face.

The final, and most wonderful, part of my spring break was flying to Paris. This city was one of my first ever abroad destinations, and I have since returned to have my love for the city, country, food, and its people increase tenfold. I would be meeting my mom and dad here, as well as seeing my host sister, Capucine, and her family for the first time in four years! As I boarded the plane in Athens, I knew that what was to come would be the most influential experience of my semester.

I arrived late and frazzled to the Paris airport, and without an internet connection, I wasn't sure how to find my family. I figured standing under the "Unaccompanied Minor Pickup" sign was equal amounts ironic and true, so I waited there. Before I knew what was happening, my mother's wild hair and Guerlain perfume wrapped me into a big hug, complete with tinkling jewelry (and French manicure, as I predicted). My father's canvas field jacket followed suit. They had found me.

Bounding soon after them was Capucine and her father, Yann. Capucine was twice as beautiful as I remember her; her big brown eyes at eye level with mine sparkled when I yelled, "Dude, we're old!" They widened when I bear hugged her, something that I forgot the French don't really do. Luckily I remembered before I hugged her dad, too. I was so happy to see everyone and I couldn't get the words out of my mouth fast enough. Capucine grinned, braces free, and laughed at all my stories of Purdue, Florida, and Milano; my three homes.

Capucine is a business student, like me, but since the French school system involves a three-year pre-uni program, she is not quite "in college" yet. Right now she is studying like crazy for the entrance exams. (Bon chance, ma chere!) Last year she did move out though, and now lives in a teeny-tiny flat in central Paris. The view of the Tour Eiffel makes up for the fact that there is no hot water.

Her home was also twice as beautiful as I remembered. It is pink house on the outside, and adorably antique on the inside. Oriental rugs cover the creaky wooden floorboards. The kitchen is centered around a hundred year-old copper, gas stove, and a huge, windowed nook holds the dining room table. Stairs snake all the way up to the attic, where the kid's playroom and Capucine's room is held. And, if you find the right staircase, you are led into the basement wine cellar that goes on for what seems like miles, with cases of wine older than anyone I know.

But what really makes the house a home, of course, is the family. Capucine is the oldest of three, with a 16 year-old not-so-little sister, and a 10 year-old brother. Maëlys is sharp as a tack, a brilliant baker, and sweet and sassy to the core. She does ballet, rock climbing, and theatre, and wants to go to engineering school after her bac. To describe her little brother, Tanguy, as a ball of energy and muscle packed into a heart-melting pair of big blue eyes is a massive understatement. The kid does not move from point A to point B without jumping or tumbling over something, can do ten upside-down wall pushups, and is known for opening the dining room nook windows and leaping out of them, rather than just going out the door five meters to the left. The kids are all sugar-sweet and crazy smart. I have never seen a ten-year-old hold a fork and knife as well as Tanguy does. As I get older, I realize more and more that great kids truly do come from great parents.

Capucine and her Papa, Yann

Tanguy being naughty!

After an amazing meal and a good night's sleep, my parents and I, as well as Capucine, Maëlys, and their dad, set off for our weekend trip to Normandy. Four hours away by car, the entire area of Normandy is perfectly preserved in memory of the WWII beach landings that took place on June 6, 1944. We first stopped in the extensive, and impressive museum called Le Mémorial de Caen. Once inside, you began at the top of a spiral, and went down, until you reached the exhibit on total war. From there, the hallways got darker and smaller, including a harrowingly long hallway of black, where names of the victims of the Holocaust were read off, until it burst forth in a room dedicated to the armistice. Following this was extensive information about the Occupation and Liberation of France by the English, Canadian, and American soldiers.

Omaha Beach

We had dinner at our fancy and picturesque hotel, and I realized how much better traveling with your parents is than traveling with your friends. No more hostels for me. In the morning, we were met with wind, cold, and rain. But these conditions only fueled our determination to see Utah and Omaha beach. We stopped first at Omaha Beach, where our family friend, Robin's, father landed with "Big Red One," the First Infantry Division, on D-Day. After that, we headed further north to Utah beach, where great-granddad, who passed away in January, landed with the Fourth Infantry Division.

Utah Beach and Big Daddy

The museums full of artifacts, video interviews, and photographs certainly gave perspective to the astounding immensity of D-Day, and the importance of the American, British, and Canadian mission. But what gave standing on those sands the most gravity for me, was that I was twenty years old, going on twenty-one. I have two whole years on the majority of the men, boys, really, who were crammed into ramshackle amphibious vehicles, tossed into the water, and told to run straight into fire. Their objective was more than to secure the beach: they were to save what remained of free world.

Full of emotions, we collected ziploc bags of sand from each beach. We stood on the shores for a few still moments, with the wind whipping hard across our faces. Then we turned back to the car, an American family and a French family, and drove back home to a free France.

Spring Break Part Two: Athens

After being blessed with the luck of the Irish, I got off to the Dublin airport at four in the morning without a hitch. I created my own layover and flew back into Milano in order to cut the price of getting to Athens in half. Before getting on the plane in Milano, I stood in line and very closely observed the other passengers. Spying a dude's gym bag, a woman's hoodie, and a few other types of luggage, the only thought going through my non-caffeinated brain was, "huh, thats a bizarrely named fraternity...Wait, I am going to actual Greece." The birthplace of democracy, and the source of a majority of the EU's political/economic tensions, Athens is a sprawling city of about 800,000 people, and thousands more stray dogs and cats.

I arrived to the Athens airport only half an hour before Fay's flight, so I waited by a luggage carousel for her flight from Paris to come flooding in. We had an excited reunion, then got on the metro (semi-ilegally) to head towards our air b'n'b, where our other friends were waiting. I immediately noticed the differences about Greece from the rest of the European Union. About ten beggar children approached us on the tram alone, which dustily rattled over old tracks and through graffiti-covered walls. The streets were littered with homeless dogs and stray cats, and were made of half cobblestone and half broken-up concrete, if they weren't just made of gravel. The country wasn't dangerous-looking, per say, but it was clearly in some distress.

Our flat was on the third-floor of a decently new building, with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and two king-size futons to share between the six of us. Fay (Faylafel) and I met up with Juhi (Mama Ju), Mads (Maddie-san), Kim (Kimbo), and Jasmine (Jazz-hands), and had a joyous reunion that involved tea and nespresso from the flat's kitchen, beer and chocolate from Belgium, TimTams from France, music from Ireland, and Turkish Delight from Germany. Small trinkets and postcards were also exchanged, and we settled right back into each other like we never left.

After freshening up, and wandering about a teeny-tiny Greek grocery store, we settled in to cook dinner. Faylafel was more than happy to cook for everyone, and whipped up pesto pasta, and baked a pre-made spanikofika. I was happy as a clam to be back with all my friends again. It still blows my mind that every single one of these incredible humans didn't exist to me four short months before.

Jazz-hands, Me, Faylafel, Maddisan, Mama Ju, Kimbo

Inside the Acropolis Museum - Original roof!

I slept well in the most comfortable bed in all of Europe, and awoke the next morning to much rain, a TimTamSlam, and life-changing scrambled eggs. We all filed out only a few blocks away to the Acropolis. Yes, I said A FEW BLOCKS AWAY FROM THE ACROPOLIS. Upon getting there, though, we discovered it was closed. Which was okay, it was raining too much anyway. But because of a mysterious national holiday, we got into the Acropolis Museum for free! This modern and sleek museum houses most of the original pieces found in the Acropolis, including pillars, facades, statues, and the statues of the Muses that hold up the Temple of Athena.

After we all reconvened, we set out for lunch. We wandered through the "Famous Flea Market" in hopes for something good, but we were met with lots of tourist traps. On the other side of it, though, we happened upon a gastro-grub style gyro and soulaki restaurant, where each wrap was only two euros, and included free water! We ate our fill, and decided what to do next. Using a recommendation map for guidance, we set out to a handful of fun places.

Evzones doing their thing

Unfortunately, we were met with closed doors on every turn. As we wound through the streets, though, we discovered treasures of the city. My favorite was the Parliament Building, where elite Greek soldiers guarded the nation's tomb of the unknown soldier. These soldiers are called Evzones, and are predominantly ceremonial, although their concentration is astounding, and I bet their reflexes are like lightning. They wear tradition costume-like uniforms, with a kilt, berets with long tassels, knee-high socks, and wooden shoes with big balls on the end. The most modern piece of their costume was a semi-automatic weapon, though, so I wouldn't make fun of them if I were you.


We also got to see the changing of the guards! It was an intricate, precise dance between the two leaving and the two replacing them. They would extend one arm and one leg into the air at exactly the same time, let them hang frozen there, and then put them down at the same time. It was interesting, but certainly not solemn. I felt a little bad about trying to suppress giggles. In the end though, I knew that I certainly couldn't do that, and these men were elite indeed, albeit in their own special way.

Pretty good spot for Temple of Posieden

The next day was another rainy one, worse than before. We decided to get out of the city and go to the small town of Sounion. Luckily, city buses ran all the way down there. Unluckily, it was an old, dusty bus for two hours. It was fine though, I fell asleep both ways. The bus to the Temple of Poseidon groaned up the steep hill and careened around corners. The road was definitely a one-way, and its quality was questionable at best. The scrub landscape was beautiful though, and there was not a soul in sight. The ocean flashed bright blue with a smudge of white fog on top like icing on a cake. Excitement rose in my throat. I was going to the edge once again.

The Temple of Poseidon had opened for the season just the day before, and we one of perhaps four groups of people who went up there. The ruins were well-preserved, but not well guarded. We were the only ones up there, on the edge of Greece, where the land meets the sea. The water was deep blue and foaming, but at the same time perfectly clear. It was easy to see the enormous rock formations that the waves were breaking against. I imagine it is what the coast of California might look like.



The torrential rain got worse and worse as we headed home on the sneeze-inducing ancient bus. What would any normal group of college girls do on a night in Athens? Watch Disney's Hercules, of course. When we finished it, we lied on each other on the double wide king size Ikea futons and became slap-happy tired. We sat around a laptop and watch the voice of our generation, Taylor Swift, speak to us through music videos, interviews, and lyrics. We watched parody videos. We talked about home, food, boys, and how much we missed it. We also talked about where we wanted to go next; not just tomorrow, but the next day, the next week, the next ten years. No one talked about their serious futures and no one wanted to go to sleep. If we went to sleep, it would be tomorrow; we would be a day older. We wouldn't be in Athens, on a futon, watching Taylor Swift videos. With youth and wildness and absolute freedom coursing through our veins like the lifeblood that every Jew, Christian, Hindu, Greek, Indian, Japanese, and American human being has within them. We all knew this was where we were meant to be. We were all following our calling, and we were doing it together.


The next day, we went to the Acropolis. And then were very tired. So we got sugary donuts. After eating the sticky loukomades, I had to pack up and head off to the airport! Faylafel say me off to the correct metro, and I was eagerly off to France!

Acropolis from behind

Temple of Athena

It was finally warm and sunny! On my last day!

Ps. About half of my photos are not mine. They belong to Juhi. Click here for her blog!

Spring Break Part 1: Dublin

I would first like to apologize that I have been so off-the-grid, when in fact I have hardly been at all, in terms of internet connectivity. The lengthy pauses between writing just mean that I am off experiencing more things to write about! Since our last meeting, I have been the Dublin, Ireland; Athens, Greece; Paris, France; Normandy, France; Saint Mandrier, France; and Bellagio, Italy. There have also been some new experiences in Milano with my Momma and Daddy!

The first leg of my adventure was a trip to Dublin! I was there from March 19-23, to visit the one an only Bridget Daly. She is studying abroad in Dublin with Boston University at Dublin City College, majoring in sociology. We have been friends since high school, and if you count the time she came to Purdue to mostly see my brother, this is the third time I have seen her since graduation.

It took about the same amount of time to get to the Bergamo airport as it did to get from Milano to Dublin. I took some huge bus to the middle of nowhere and wandered about an airport that was apparently mostly underground. I had plenty of time before boarding so I re-read the first quarter of On The Road for the fourth time. After getting my passport (and permit of stay) checked at every possible checkpoint, I boarded my very first RyanAir flight. I could tell it was super low cost, which was awesome in some ways and not so awesome in others. My suitcase, like the rest of me, was a little too long and had to go in sideways. An old Italian-Irish man helped me with my bag, then offered me an espresso gum when we found out I was seatmates with him and his wife. About halfway through the flight, they gave up on their Sudoku puzzle, and she curled her arms around his and they fell asleep. Not for the first time, I realized how weird it is to be traveling alone.

I was not so lucky, having to constantly regulate the pressure in my poor still-sick skull, and was having a hard time deciding whether to take a cab straight to the air bnb and crash, or go out with Bridget Daly until the wee hours of the morning. It really depended on how easy my place was to get to; I was still operating on Italy terms and was going to hop on and hop off without a 15 euro ticket that the airplane was selling.

Instead of a bus, I decided it was a good choice to drop twenty euro on a taxi cab. The reason being is that I don’t even walk around Purdue’s campus at midnight, let along traverse a foreign city with a suitcase, even if they do semi-speak my language. My cab driver wore puka-beads and sandals even though it was still cold, and I realized a little too late that I should have answered “yes” to his question if I had ever been there before. It didn’t matter; he was gunning it, driving in the bus lane, flying over wide speed bumps. I was happy and tired and free, and he only took visa and amex.

I was dropped off on a quiet street in front of houses that were the very definition of tidy. A light was on in the house I was dropped at, so I happily paid the driver and rolled my suitcase to the door. I knew I was in trouble when a sweet young newly-wed woman stuck her head out the door and said, “I think you have the wrong house, deary.” I must have scared her half to death pulling up in a cab like that. She pointed me down the block and said to let her know if I ran into any other trouble. I apologized and took my obnoxiously loud and orange suitcase four doors down. When I arrived to a wide carpark surrounded by a wrought-iron gate, I recognized the house by the photo on the website. The owner in her email said to “ring” when I arrived, but I was very unfortunately met with a locked gate, three doghouses, and old doorbell with a severed wire. Panic started to rise in my throat, and I tried my best to repeat the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy mantra of “Don’t Panic.” I would figure out a way in; I had to. I had no phone, no money, no place to stay, and absolutely had to get into this house. I reached through the bars and tapped on the doghouses, hoping some barking would wake up whoever was in there; but there was no one home. So, I took advantage of this opportunity, and climbed up and over the wrought-iron fence.

Next problem was getting into the house at midnight. Feeling like the guiltiest cat burglar in the world, I tapped on the door, then each of the windows, getting progressively louder and colder. An annoyed looking scruffy man peeked out the window to see my crying disheveled face, and then disappeared. He came back with a hunched over, bespeckled woman who was wearing perfect winged eyeliner and matching fleece pajamas. “Who are you?! How did you get in?! What do you want?!” she demanded as soon as she opened the door. I tearfully replied that I was so sorry if I had the wrong house but I was a student coming from Milano looking for my boarding house. “Wait right here,” she softly said as she slammed the door in my face. She re-appeared with the owner of the house, Edel, who gently held up her phone and said, “Hi, Samantha, I was waiting for you to ring.” The language barrier is proving ever-vigilant. 

The rest of the trip went much more smoothly. My flat was incredible in all ways. It was close to Bridget Daly's school, had its own kitchenette, wifi, a queen-size bed, and triple security. The first day I was there, I had a morning to kill while Bridget Daly was at work. I went in search for the city center, but with my stellar sense of direction, went the exact opposite direction of the city center and turned around when I was halfway back to the airport. My lesson in if you need help, ask, was driven home very hard. I did make it to the DCU campus, though! It was made up of twenty or so buildings, each representing a different college. They all stood in two handsome lines, with the library at one end and the student center on the other. I tried my best to blend in, but I exuded Italy in my all-black everything, Ray-Bans even though it wasn't sunny, red lipstick, and leather fringed purse. The other kids on campus just looked like regular students in sweatpants and t-shirts. I will have definitely have to prepare myself for re-entry into the U.S.

Bridget Daly had been having a tough week, so to take her mind off it, we went into the city center! We hopped on the bus, but everyone was stopped by the driver before they were allowed to sit down. You had to tell him or her where you were going, and were then told the rate you had to pay based on its zone. They took only coins, and exact change at that. Immediately the socio-economic differences between Ireland and Italy were brought into perspective. Dublin has brand-new, double-decker buses with free wifi, perfect roads, and boatloads of tea. Italy has old rattly trams, bus drivers that hardly stop for passengers, and 0.35 euro vending-machine coffee. You think the Milanese would spend their precious coffee change on the bus? I dont think so.

The City Center from the top deck of the bus!

The city center was bustling with people. The wide-laned streets were always packed with cars that drove on the other side. The Liffey River cut the city in half, with O'Connell Street on one side, and Trinity College on the other. We took the bus to O'Connell street with the intention of getting dinner, then walked across the river into an area called Temple Bar. This area is basically the epitome of all the worst, creepiest, cheapest tourist attractions known to man. The deeper we got into it, the worse it got, so we turned around and headed back to the river. I had the bright idea to pop into a hostel, give the dude behind the desk a big smile, and get some real advice on where to go in the city for some good shepherd's pie, "absolutely not in Temple Bar," we said.

Not actual Guinness; Actual Bridget Daly

We were given directions to O'Neil's Restaurant, a little pub (at the very edge of Temple Bar) across from the golden-breasted statue of Molly Malone. We found a perfect two-person round table in the corner, order Smithwick's from the bar, and split a shepherd's pie. I felt like I could get used to Ireland. The next day, I met up with Bridget Daly and several of her super-cool friends, borrowed a bunch of coins, and we took to bus to Howth, a city on the very edge of Ireland; where Dublin meets to sea. We hiked up, and up, and up, the path narrowing as we squeezed and stole our way along the ledge. An even steeper hillside was to one side, the other, a drop off into the Muir Éireann. My goal of getting back to nature was definitely achieved.

Howth!

That night, I wore my black and white plaid shirt and we went out for a real-life pub crawl. We began  with a smoky and sketchy dive-bar in the upper part of a huge old house. I ordered a Jameson and Ginger for Bridget Daly, and a shot of Jameson, neat, for me. The music wasn't too bad, but the crowds pushed us outside to the terrace. There, Bridget Daly and I met a group of British guys who were there for a stag party. They talked to us about American politics, and I was proud of Bridget Daly and I holding our own as American intellectuals studying abroad and drinking in a pub. I was actually quite proud of us on many things, and realized how far we had both come since high school.

The next bar was mostly for adults; we were the only ones under 35 and they played nothing but motown music. Thank goodness we had a big dude with us. The third one's quality was questionable but at that point in the night, we didnt care. The music was good and we danced and laughed like the young crazy kids in Dublin we were. When the music stopped for good after a rigorous round of Daft Punk/Bruno Mars/The Killers, I looked at my watch. Needless to say, it was time to go home. Bridget Daly and I took a cab home and we crashed. 

"The Spire" - It's huge!!!

Dublin doughnut stall

The next day we played off-the-beaten-path tourist, got cheap and melt-in-your-mouth doughnuts, and walked about the city. I was advised to check out the Book of Kells, housed in the Trinity College Library. This book is the oldest-known manuscript of the Four Gospels, elaborately and delicately hand-painted. Matthew 27:38 and Mark 13:32-14:6 were brightly displayed under thick panels of bulletproof glass. The yellowed pages only enhanced the rich orange, blue, red, green, and gold to the pages. No photos were allowed, but more than once I had a chance. I decided against it in the end, though. It is a Bible after all.

Trinity College, The Old Library; Its like being in a whiskey barrel with books.

We did cartwheels on St. Stephen's Green, then went off the search for the Dublin Castle. When the Purdue AAMB went to Dublin two springs ago, they made the Block P on the green of some big castle, and I thought it would be cute if I took a picture on that same lawn. Logic pointed me towards that since they were in Dublin, it was clearly taken at the Dublin Castle. Both my logic and sense of direction did not point me in the right direction, yet again, and after getting a little lost, we found the squat little castle. Although disappointed, and embarrassed, that this was not the castle I had in mind, Bridget Daly and I still had fun visiting it. The back lawn featured a twisted and tangled path of concrete lines, and I immediately induced a game of cat-and-mouse, which was not taken by Bridget Daly at first, but she nabbed me in the end. 

Not the castle the AAMB stood at.

My final day in Dublin was spent entertaining myself in Eason's bookstore. Taking advantage of the English-speaking country (Even though Irish is also a language! And a cool one at that!), I sought books I could read on the trains, planes, and automobiles I would be embarking on for the next two and a half weeks. I spent a lot of the time in the travel section, purusing travel-anthropologies. I have a theory that the more I read, the better writer I will become; I can also check out my competition. I picked out two, used the free wifi, and downloaded them on my kindle. Once I was set, I bought a pot of tea and a scone from the cafe, and sat right behind the Eason's clock. I should have known that I would chime. Would have saved my blouse from being begrudgingly laundered.

Eason's Books yay!

I adored Dublin. The culture and people are as brash, rough, and simultaneously warm as the country itself. The history is rich, and those of Irish descent should truly be proud of it. The morning of my 4 AM taxi cab to the airport, the lady who let me in, Margherite, popped in my flat to say goodbye. She asked me if I enjoyed myself, and when I responded with a resounding yes, she said, good, come back and see us. She blessed me with the luck of the Irish, and set me on my way, after letting me out of the gate.