Whether wandering by the canals, eating a slice of pizza the size of my head, or going to Easter Mass in a tiny church where the liturgy I am intimately familiar with is transformed into the unfamiliar in the musical Italian language, this country, this city, still has much to fascinate and delight me.

I can never understand Italy, understand Venice, as intimately as its denizens, no matter how many times I return, no matter if I attentively watch Il Postino or read A Room with a View or any of the hundreds of books and films about Italy.

But, I can still enjoy la dolce vita — the sweet life — while I am there.

We had a misadventure on the train from Paris to Venice. Namely, that we had accidentally booked the wrong month. Oops. As we were getting off the train, it started moving. Yes, moving. Luckily, there were empty compartments, and we were allowed to have a good night's rest anyway, to prepare us for our first view of haunting Venice.

Gondola rides in Venice have a fixed baseline price by law, so we were unable to get a ride. Still, we saw many gondoliers ferrying people through the canals in their iconic striped shirts and straw hats. Some were even singing!

We followed little dinosaur footprints to the Museo di Storia Naturale di Venezia, the natural history museum. It was a refreshing break from the hordes of tourists in Venice for Easter weekend, as it mainly contained families frolicking among the exhibits, including preserved animals, cultural artifacts, and an entire, tranquil room decorated to mimic the ocean. At the end, we relaxed in this peaceful courtyard.

Food in Venice is infamously expensive, but tucked away in an out-of-the-way street, we found a pizzeria which sold slices of pizza the size of my head for 1.50 euro. What a bargain!

The people-and-pigeon-packed Plaza San Marco is ringed by such buildings as the Doge's Palace, but the eye is always drawn to the stunning, mosaic-studded Basilica di San Marco. Again, unfortunately, due to Holy Week, it was even more packed than usual, so I couldn't make it inside, but the outside is enough to drop the jaw.

My friends and I at first thought this was Saint George but this is Saint Theodore, the original patron saint of the city and a martyr. One of the legends surrounding him is that he defeated a dragon (looking strangely like a crocodile here) with the aid of a cross. He was displaced when Saint Mark's remains were brought to Venice, since he was primarily associated with the Eastern Orthodox Church, and Venice wanted to establish independence from Constantinople.

The National Archaeological Museum in Venice is a little museum with many curiosities. At one point, I even heard what sounded like Gregorian chanting and thought it was Easter Mass at the Basilica nearby, only to realize it was a recording in the next room! Still, my favorite parts of the collection were the stunning illuminated manuscripts, several of them in Armenian.

I have seen many, many disturbing artistic depictions of Leda and the Swan (Google if you dare), but this one definitely ranks up there.

Venezia is one of the best cities for simply wandering around. Every time you turn a corner, you see another beautiful thing.

Certainly, Paris to me was like that, even though we waited in the most and longest lines for various attractions. I was in Gay Paree! This is the city where Fred Astaire danced with Audrey Hepburn, where Gene Kelly serenaded Leslie Caron, where the Impressionists and the Lost Generation set the artistic and intellectual worlds on fire. This is the city of people’s dreams, romantic, artistic, intellectual or otherwise.

Did my dreams match up with reality? Yes and no. Obviously, the Paris of my dreams didn’t involve waiting in line for an hour to see Saint Chapelle.

Yet, when I did see sunlight streaming through those riotously colored windows, I knew that yes, I really was in La Ville-Lumiére. The City of Light.

The Panthéon contains, among other things, the graves of Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Louis Braille, and Voltaire, as well as a memorial to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. One of the most fascinating things in there, though, was Foucault's Pendulum, a device that shows the rotation of the Earth. Léon Foucault demonstrated it here in 1851; this is a copy of the original device.

Sacre Coeur is one of the many beautiful cathedrals (or rather, basilicas) in Paris. Climbing a tall hill, we were confronted with panoramic views of Montmartre. We walked in, intending to sightsee, only to bump into a Holy Thursday Mass. Oops! Also of note were the vending machines dispensing holy medals, which was. . .strange.

Finding the Moulin Rouge was a trial. After getting the very clear direction of going "left" from Sacre Coeur, we wandered around Montmartre, getting an eyeful of the Parisian nightlife. However, we were lucky and stumbled upon it. Having watched too much of Moulin Rouge!, I was a wee bit disappointed there was no giant elephant with a singing Ewan McGregor on it.

We found a bistro to drink Bordeaux and for me to eat escargot. Even though the idea of eating snails inevitably triggers an "ew!" for many, I can report they tasted like mussels, pretty much, except cooked in pesto and garlic. Quite tasty. Our server was also a riot. I had heard that French waiters were often rude but happily, that wasn't the case. Ours had lived in California for a spell and was dying to return. He also pumped his fist into the air and shouted, "I love Barack Obama!"

My art history professor fainted when she had seen the Winged Victory of Samothrace for the first time. While I didn't have that reaction, I was certainly enraptured by its dynamism, its striking evocation of movement, strength, and grace. I kept returning to it.

My friend Caitlin really wanted to find the lamassu, giant human-headed winged lion statues. However, the Louvre is a maze, so we spent several minutes haplessly looking for a docent (mysteriously few), finding a medieval moat (!) and sphinx, and bumping randomly into our other friend who was also a little lost. Finally, we realized we had missed a side staircase and here we were. Worth the journey, I think.

Since it was Holy Week, unfortunately, the line for the main sanctuary at Notre Dame was very, very long. However, our Museum Passes got us into the much shorter line for the tower tour. Since we we had to catch a train that night, Aubrey and Bekah got us to agree to leave the line if an hour had passed and we weren't in the building. Approximately 56 minutes and a crepe break later, Caitlin, snickering, pointed out the time left when we entered the towers. For all that, though, we got some of the best views in Paris, a showing of the bell Victor Hugo made famous in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and some time with the gargoyles.

Shakespeare and Company is a bookstore famous for the many, many writers who've hung out there, such as not-so-well-known folks as Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein. Packed with people, it was a lovely, whimsical place where brand-new editions of books were shelved with decades-old ones, where there was a pot for people to throw in change for "starving writers," where we wandered upstairs to find someone playing the piano, and where there was a little courtyard with a charming arrangement of toys and garden gnomes.

You see the Eiffel Tower in popular culture so much that it's become a cliché. Still, when we walked up to it, we were struck by how beautiful it was. I know I've overused that word when it comes to Paris, but we were exclaiming at how the black iron was twisted like lacework, how delicate and yet tough it looked against the sky. There's nothing else like it in the world; no wonder it's synonymous with Paris.

We waited an hour for Sainte Chapelle, but this is what I walked into. Before I saw Sainte Chapelle, I had never seen stained glass. Not like this. Easily the single most wondrous structure I saw my entire trip.

Before spring break, while I was interested in Amsterdam, I wasn’t as enamored with the idea of being in it as I was with, say, Paris or Venice.

Amsterdam is not the stuff of which gauzy, Hollywood-esque dreams are made. After all, the only movie I can think of that involves Amsterdam is Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay. Definitely not a Sabrina or an Amelie.

But when I got off the bus, blinking and disoriented, I saw the canals and the dedicated bike lanes and the charmingly low brick buildings and fell a little in love.

Amsterdam may not have the glamour of the more snappily named London or Rome, but what it does have is a laid-back, quirky personality.

Bikes were everywhere in Amsterdam and by everywhere, I mean everywhere. The central train station had a multi-story parking deck for bikes. Yes, a multi-story parking deck. This is in addition to the multitudes of bike lanes. In essence, in Amsterdam, pedestrians have to watch for more than cars, buses, and trams — they have to watch for bikes.

My friends and I went on a canal cruise. To accommodate different languages, passengers were given the option of listening to audio guides in their native tongues. Nel and Ron were the name of our guides, and the whole time, we kept cracking up. Apparently, despite sounding forty-ish, they had been in Amsterdam for over 60 years and kept squabbling like, well, an old married couple. For example, when passing the fanciest hotel in Amsterdam, Nel would snipe at Ron about not taking her there, etc. Ron, meanwhile, the old codger, graced our ears with terms such as "meat market" when passing the old stomping grounds for courting couples. Ah, gotta love audio guides.

The Rijksmuseum was under renovation so only the permanent collection was out, but we still got to see gems like this violin made entirely out of Delft china.

NEMO was my favorite non-art museum of the whole trip. It's a kids' science museum, and it's so much fun! There were your everyday interactive exhibits to teach you about genetics and engineering and physics and then there was the Teen Facts floor. . .Let's just say it's most explicit show of what happens to teens as they enter puberty I've ever seen, including an animated video which graphically depicts how the male and female bodies change, a huge box with cloth tongues you can stick your arms into to practice French kissing techniques (not kidding), and a section about sexual pleasure not recommended for those under the age of twelve. . .

This tree is in the American Book Center, a lovely English language bookstore in the middle of Amsterdam (pretty much everyone I spoke to in Amsterdam spoke English). The best part, though, was that it had an Espresso Printing Machine where you could get a manuscript over a hundred pages long printed and bound for a reasonable price. I joked about getting a ticket to Amsterdam this fall because of my Senior Seminar project.

The flower market was colorful and entertaining. Besides all the tourist items, there were, of course, flowers and bulbs of all kinds. What caught my attention, though, were these marijuana-growing kits. By all accounts, they aren't much good if you're serious about growing the stuff, and anyway, Uncle Sam won't let you bring any home.

I was lucky enough to have a pancake dinner with Scotties Caitlin White and Kathryn Dean at the Pancake Bakery. These are traditional poffertjes, little pancakes drenched in cherry liqueur, cherries, and whipped cream. Yum!

Hortus Botanicus is the botanical garden of Amsterdam and it has greenhouses for all climates, an herb garden, a cafe called de Oranjerie with a tree growing in it, and a butterfly greenhouse. The butterflies weren't timid at all as you can see here.

I will be spending the next week in Amsterdam, Paris, and Venice! So, for now, the more-or-less-weekly posts will be on hiatus until I return with stories of my grand continental tour.

Thanks for hanging in with me! I couldn’t ask for a better group of readers and commenters!

Love,

Anna

I haven’t posted in a while because I’ve spent the last two weekends in Belfast with friends and London with family, soaking up the differences (and similarities) in Ireland and England.

The verdict?

Increasingly, I’m coming to the conclusion that the world, in actuality, is very small.

Hear me out:  Sometimes, I come to the depressing conclusion that human beings have and always will be unable to see each other eye to eye and hold hands in fellowship, especially in light of this toxic political and cultural climate. I mean, when women are being called called prostitutes in front of an audience of millions, when black teenagers are being shot in the streets for looking “suspicious”, and when children die when they’re supposed to be safe at school and home, how can I believe that humanity is worth it?

What changed my mind is not earth-shattering, and it was only changed in a small way. But, isn’t it the small steps that get you forward?

It’s the connections, each and every one, that I make with other people.

I’m not just talking about the deep, powerful relationships I forge between myself and my friends, my family, although nourishing these connections is vital. My visits to London and Belfast reaffirmed how necessary it is for me to continue cultivating the relationships  I already have.

But, I’m also talking about the short, seemingly small moments you can have with total strangers.

Case in point:  In Belfast, I kept on running into people with whom I discovered the most random connections.

In a pub, my friend (and fellow Scottie) Caitlin and I ran into an Irish couple whose daughter had studied at Agnes Scott for a year. The couple and we both got excited, chatty; the husband bought me a Guinness and Caitlin a lager.

“She said she lived in Rebekah,” said the wife, cellphone jammed to her ear, the daughter in question at the end of the line.

“We did, too!” said Caitlin, as, I’m sure, visions of the red-brick visage of Rebekah Scott Hall floated into all our heads.

A connection.

In a charity bookstore, we met a woman from Atlanta who was teaching creative writing at Queen’s University.

“I had friends at Agnes Scott!” she exclaimed. We spent the next ten minutes talking over the heads of customers, about Ireland and Scotland (she had studied in Edinburgh for a semester, just an hour from Glasgow) and creative writing, coincidentally, Caitlin’s and my major.

A connection.

In a bus station, early in the morning, I met an Australian woman who was armed with a large suitcase and the aura of one who travels often.

“Where in Australia?” I asked casually.

“Tasmania,” she answered.

“I have a friend who’s from Tasmania,” I said, thinking of my flatmate’s boyfriend, Sean, who was from a small town called Hobart.

“Where?”

“Hobart,” I said.

Of course, she was also from Hobart, a fact which shocked Sean when I told him much later, since Tasmania is small enough that he runs into few Tasmanians, let alone Hobartians, in the wider world.

A connection.

These connections may seem flimsy, easily blown away by the winds of time and chance. They are; again, they are not earth-shattering. I do not find my entire worldview shifting with the revelation that the nice cashier in the Irish bookstore is also an Atlantan.

But, the steady accumulation of these fragile meetings does lead me to wonder:  If it’s such a big, big world (which it is), how can I keep finding things in common, these connections, with these strangers I chat up casually?

The Australian woman in the bus station offered an observation while we were discussing our travels, our different places of origin:  We, human beings, are the same underneath it all.

At the time, I, armed with years of reading and classes in cultural studies, felt my mind rear up. Of course we’re not the same. It’s a big, big world. Hell, we wouldn’t be shouting at each other all the time if we weren’t different.

But here, now, I realize that we are both right. Yes, it’s a big, big  world, and people are different. To refuse to acknowledge differences in experience, in culture, in creed, in climate, in language is to erase what make people individuals.

But, to also refuse to acknowledge that we all are born, that we all die, that we all love, hate, eat, sleep, laugh, and cry, is to erase what make people human.

It’s the smallest of connections that we can make with strangers, with people who are superficially so different from us, that remind us of that simple fact.

A Queen's University mural celebrating the Chinese community in Ireland. A connection.

I can mark the exact moment I realized I had fallen in love with Glasgow.

It was a fine day — for Scotland — a bit cloudy but dry and cool. I was wandering around Glasgow Green, this big, grand park speckled with litter in the city centre on the River Clyde.

All around me was the buzz of life:  chortling children whizzing by on bicycles, geese honking from the riverbanks, gaggles of people strolling and chattering in their thick Glaswegian accents.

I was solitary but not lonely. It just was too nice of a day — for Scotland — to stay inside, and walking alone is one of the best ways to allow my thoughts to meander in lazy circles.

It was by the bank of the slow, quiet Clyde, close to the McLennan Arch,  when a thought suddenly, clearly announced itself.

I love Glasgow. 

Three words.

I love Glasgow. 

At heart, I am an urban girl but picky about my cities. Chicago, windy, over-priced Chicago, has dominated my heart my entire life, and pollen-stricken, steamy Memphis and Atlanta have sneaked up on me. While love can be all-encompassing and unconditional for multitudes of people, I was not  so sure about cities. There are so many songs and stories about the concept of “home,” how home is where the heart is, how there is no place like home.

Perhaps it’s the product of six moves and a family history of immigration but a part of me has always wanted to be able to point at one place and claim it as mine. And already, too many cities, I thought, had a hold on my heart.

When I first beheld Glasgow, it seemed big (but not too big) and vibrant and gritty and chaotic and lovable. Yet, there was no instant click, no key turning comfortably in a lock.

It was not home. Not yet.

I do not know the process of what turns a place into a home. My first week was a blur of paperwork, jet lag, sore calves, and frantic housekeeping. I was confused by the weather (in an hour, it will shine, rain, hail, then shine again), befuddled by the accent, and sharply homesick for Tagalog, hushpuppies, and familiar faces.

But the seed was there.

Was it turning a corner and hearing bagpipes at the Buchanan Galleries? Sweating and spinning at a céilidh? Getting fish and chips (for a discount!) when the sky was purpling on a Sunday evening? Savoring the gravity of tall tombstones in a graveyard on a hill? Finding a Topshop shirt for 50 pence in a charity shop? Sipping a special blend at the Willow Tearooms? Wandering in the eclectic Kelvingrove Museum? Or hearing a proud Glaswegian talk about how the architect wanted the City Chambers to resemble a cathedral while gazing at the magnificent Banqueting Hall?

Perhaps all of the above. Perhaps none of the above. Perhaps it’s something more mysterious, deeper than the mere listing of features and activities.

It is all right to love more than one city, to claim more than one place as home. Cities cannot be jealous. They cannot be possessive. They cannot even hold you tight, close fast their arms, so that you can never leave them. They are not alive like that. They can only accept, not keep.

But the human heart, yes, can hold a multitude of locales, an endless amount of homes. In me rest the imprints of countless places:  New Brunswick, Los Angeles, Chicago, Greenwood, Memphis, Atlanta, Manila, Angeles City, New Buffalo,  Oviedo, and now, hilly, temperamental, perpetually grey Glasgow.

Some places I was in for weeks, others years. Some places I return to again and again, others only saw me once. Some places I loved while there, some places I hated and wish never to return.

Still, they, all of them, were, are, home.

It only took us about several weeks of planning, multiple changes in itinerary, dropping a city, and various other little hitches.

But hey, it’s definitely happening!

So, where am I going?

1.  Amsterdam

courtesy of WikiTravel

2.  Paris

courtesy of WikiTravel

3.  Venice

courtesy of WikiTravel

I’ve been to Venice before (lots and lots of pigeons and pretty buildings and slightly fishy canals)  but Amsterdam and Paris will be bright and brand-new to me. I can’t wait to see the Anne Frank House, the Louvre, the canals, the Eiffel Tower, the flower market, the Moulin Rouge. . .everything I have ever read or seen or heard about.

I am so very blessed and so very grateful.

How cool is that?

One overlooked the charming village of Doune. Another crowned the bustling town of Stirling. The final one soared above the grand city of Edinburgh.  By the end of each trip, my legs and lower back burned and grumbled from the steep hills and countless stairs. Was it worth it?

Of course.

I’ve seen palacios and palazzos before, in Spain and Italy. I’ve even visited the Iolani Palace, residence of Hawaiian kings, in Honolulu.

But there’s still something wondrous about a castle. Even now that I’ve outgrown (mostly) my Disney princess phase. Even now that I can clearheadedly critique the materialistic and regressive “princess phenomenon” in contemporary culture.

Perhaps it’s because, as an American who never grew up with a royal institution, I have an unrealized desire for majesty. Certainly, there was enough of that to spare when I beheld the Crown Jewels of Scotland or the Stone of Scone for the first time.

The egalitarian in me noted the expense of keeping jewels that can pay for a social program or two. The monarchist, the one who loves a good, grand symbol, hushed that voice.

Because don’t a lot of people quietly yearn to see that kind of grandeur, even for just a moment? Isn’t that why all our eyes were trained on the Royal Wedding? Don’t we all sometimes just want the fairy tale, the illusion that it is possible to have Camelot in this day and age?

In my Order and Nature in Renaissance Writing class, we’ve been examining notions of order and control, divine right, in the Renaissance period through such cultural markers as masques, gardens, horseback-riding, dancing, etc. When it comes down to it, the castle is merely a symbol of power, of control, which is perhaps especially comforting to me and so many others in this uncertain time, in which economies flounder and revolution is in the air.

The castles I saw were each radically different, from the lonely harshness of Doune to the colorful vibrancy of Stirling to the glorious might of Edinburgh.

Yet, all were arresting, all were majestic, all were magical, each and every one.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail was shot here. I even got to run around with coconuts!

Stirling Castle was the childhood home of Mary, Queen of Scots, and was supposed to be the seat of the King of Scotland.

Me in front of grand Edinburgh Castle. It was like a city within a city!

There, I said it.

In general, I like school. I like school a lot. Hell, I’m even seriously considering getting a Ph.D. in English and becoming a full-time professional student to (sort of) support my pretentious creative writing habit. There is little better to me than reading great literary works and getting into loud, lusty arguments about them (or, ahem, cracking snide, innuendo-laced jokes).

So . . . why do I feel so unmotivated here at the University of Strathclyde?

It’s not that I despise the classes or anything. I’m taking Enlightenment to Romanticism, Order and Nature in Renaissance Writing, and Detective Fiction (which is pretty much my trying to address the part of literary history I’ve conveniently ignored in my Agnes Scott career, i.e. most literature before 1800). So far, I’ve found something(s) to like in each class, whether the literature (The Moonstone? Yay! The Rape of the Lock? Yay! ) or the professors/tutors (my Renaissance professor does something awesome-sounding called Animal Studies. Yeah, that exists.) or both.

I’m not even technically slacking off. I finish my readings before lectures, take notes for discussion, and during tutorials, talk. A lot.

(I actually fear I’m becoming the sterotypical loud American. Or the angry feminist/postcolonialist. Or what-have-you.)

But still— why do I feel like my brain is only half-turned-on all the time?

I’m sleepwalking through my classes:  rushing through my readings, scribbling down shallow answers to discussion questions the morning of my tutorials, and writing this blog post near midnight instead of taking notes on Ben Jonson’s masques.

Maybe it’s because I’m taking three classes as opposed to my usual four or five. Maybe it’s because I have only six papers and exams all semester as opposed to 20. Maybe it’s because I’m taking all these classes pass/fail. Maybe it’s because, as a local student in my Enlightenment/Romanticism class pointed out, “It’s like a holiday for [me].”

There’s a booming voice in my head that is shouting, “YOU ARE ON HOLIDAY. YOU ARE NOT AT AGONY SPOT (hahaha). YOU ARE IN EUROPE. PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY, etc.”

There’s also another, quieter voice in my head that is gently but persistently telling me that just because I am “on holiday” doesn’t mean that I should disrupt the classroom experience of my fellow students who are not there “on holiday,” who are not taking these classes pass/fail, by being woefully unprepared or downright contemptuous of the proceedings.

Then again, the last sentence I just wrote is unnecessarily judgmental. Who am I to say what works best for individual students studying abroad? Who am I to deem all local students as necessarily more “serious” than exchange students?

Not to mention, even though I am an aspiring academic, the whole point of studying “abroad” is to have the whole experience of living in a foreign country, not just lock myself in the library.  There’s a new country and continent for me to explore and frolic about on. If I shut myself in, I might as well have stayed home.

In the end, I really just need to find my happy medium, between getting off intellectual autopilot and having fun on holiday and to have both the “study” and the “abroad.”

Look how much work I've done since tutorial ended at 11 AM! What time is it now? Uh, midnight. . .

In Edinburgh, I saw Harry Potter’s birthplace.

Sort of.

When two friends, Bekah and Aubrey, and I decided to visit Edinburgh last Sunday, we put The Elephant House, the café where Rowling wrote the early Harry Potter books, on the list.

Of course, we got lost.

Our map was not forthcoming about when streets turned into bridges. Also, some streets were simply unnamed, forcing us to puzzle out when and where to turn.

After several minutes of wandering around, occasionally stopping to furrow our brows at the map, we stopped near the National Museum of Scotland, to consult it yet again. Casually, I glanced at the business next to us and caught a few telltale words:  ”Harry Potter.  . .Rowling. . .Elephant.”

“Guys!” I exclaimed. “I think this is it.”

We looked up, and lo and behold, it was The Elephant House.

I was afraid to see a tourist trap, like the Royal Mile turned out to be — some kind of overpriced Harry Potter shrine with ridiculously long lines and gimmicky house-elf-shaped cookies and other gaudy memorabilia.

Instead, we walked into a brightly lit and bustling café festooned with elephants of all shapes and sizes:  elephant figurines, elephant prints, an elephant chair, elephant-ear-shaped shortbread,  a poster asking for donations to elephant care and rescue organizations,

The line was  somewhat lengthy but took us no more than ten minutes to get through. There was a special of a small pot of tea plus a blueberry muffin for 3.25 pounds. No more than usual for a drink and pastry at your typical cute, indie café.

Of course, it was still packed; and when I attempted to go to the back room overlooking Edinburgh Castle, where Rowling had sat and written her first manuscripts, all the seats were taken or reserved; and a staff-member kindly but firmly informed me I had to order first before sitting down.

Still, we had no trouble finding three seats at the bar and settled in nicely, I with my rooibos tea, Bekah with her peppermint, and Aubrey with her chai.

Verdict?

Rowling’s preference was very understandable. The tea service was wonderful:   there were loose leaves instead of bags and a nifty strainer that sat over the cup. All the niceties, milk, sugar, butter and jam, were duly offered. As for the muffin, it was perfectly moist and just-sweet-enough with a surprisingly juicy center that burst like a real blueberry when I bit into it.

Not to say that The Elephant House doesn’t puff itself up with Rowling and Harry Potter with its pamphlets and very noticeable sign. But, it clearly hasn’t let itself become too bigheaded and ignore the most important parts of a café experience: delicious food and a convivial atmosphere.