Notes from Abroad

Italians break all the rules!

Sunday, September 27, 2009

By Carrie Schoenborn
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

BE ITALIAN! Everyone tells me this should be my goal while in Florence. Do as the Italians do.

“Don’t wear jeans or hoodies,” they say. “Italians never wear jeans or hoodies. You must wear a dress to church. Don’t wear sneakers. Don’t wear shorts. Don’t wear flip-flops. Don’t wear tennis shoes. Don’t make eye contact while walking down the street and whatever you do, DO NOT SMILE AT PEOPLE WALKING BY!” The problem is ITALIANS BREAK ALL THE RULES. Italians have just as much variety in clothes and the people who wear them as Americans do and believe me, they do not all wear dresses to church! For the past two weeks I have been attempting to "be Italian" in every sense of the word. I walk everywhere I need to go, buy veggies from the local Ortolano and avoid the "touristy" side of town.

In theory, "being Italian" is amazing and, for the most part, it actually is. The problem is I’m not Italian, I’m American. I find comfort in smiling at people as I walk past them and wearing the occasional hoodie.

The remarkable thing is so do Italians. I spent two weeks feeling awkward walking down the street, trying to abide by all the rules laid out for me. Finally as I am walking to school, I can’t take it any longer; I look up, make eye contact with a woman and smile.
You will not believe what happens next! She smiles and says “Buongiorno.”
Anticlimactic, perhaps, but an incredible discovery. As it turns out, the best way to "be Italian" is to be myself because the thing is, I’m not Italian and I should respect the Italian culture enough to recognize that. I will never be Italian, but by being respectful and being myself I can go beyond the stereotypes asserted to me and learn how Italians truly live. Being respectful enough to attempt to learn the language, humble enough to acknowledge a lack of understanding and comfortable enough to be myself, I have been able to fit in much more than when I was attempting to be the Italian I was told to be.

In the past week, I have had multiple people stop me to ask for directions. I, of course, meekly replied, “Non parlo l’italiano,” but know even seemingly insignificant interactions such as these would not be possible if I were still trying to become Italian.

Through such minor interactions as buying vegetables, sitting in the park and going to the library I am slowly coming to understand the Italian culture and my place in it. Though I have cast aside the stereotypes I once held, I am still a long ways from any sort of true understanding of the culture.

Each day brings a new discovery and a new eye-opening experience. I will gladly share my latest insights in my next blog, but until then "Ciao" from the American in Italy.

Posted 7:15 PM 0 Comments

From Oslo, Norway: The socialist monarchy

Sunday, September 20, 2009

By Corey Kapolka
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

On a hiking trip to the forest of Nordmarka, north of Oslo, our guide told us a peculiar story.

One day, King Olav was skiing along his favorite trail in Nordmarka. He traveled with his dog Troll, but he had no guards.

Along his way, he came upon another skier traveling in the opposite direction. The men talked briefly, then continued on their paths.

Shortly after encountering the king, the other man came upon another skier. Excited, he stopped the skier, and exclaimed, "Hurry! If you continue along this trail, you can meet the king! He's only just ahead!"

The man seemed rather nonplussed, and said "Well...yes, I know my father is traveling ahead of me."

A popular topic among Norwegians is discussing what it means to be Norwegian because modern Norway is considered to be even younger than the U.S., and being subject to Danish and Swedish rule for most of its history had left Norway with seemingly little cultural identity when it finally formed its own constitution in 1814.

I’ve found this seemingly trivial story of Olav and Harald (now the present king) to be useful in discussing what is essentially Norwegian.

The general agreement is kings do not socialize with commoners.
Why, then, was Olav skiing among them?

His reign spanned from the 1950s until the ‘90s, so he was quite a modern monarch.
Even our celebrities, whom we treat as royalty, do not mingle with we common folk. But here, in cold, unassuming Norway, one ideal is held above all others: equality.

Whereas we Americans hold liberty in the greatest esteem, Norwegians put equality of all citizens in top priority.

From the king to a gas station attendant, everyone has the same rights and privileges afforded by their government, and socially everyone is treated equal. Being labeled a racist may be bad in the U.S., but here it’s like being labeled a socialist back home. And being labeled a socialist here...is rather normal.

Being the lesser partner in various unions with Denmark and Sweden throughout most of its recorded history, Norway wasn’t truly independent until 1905.

But being mildly neglected by its neighbors afforded Norwegians a long tradition of self-rule, free of aristocratic meddling typical of old Europe.

They also learned to be appreciative of their natural resources, for arable land is a minor fraction of the entirety of the country. These traditions stayed with the people, and are quite evident in the appearance of modern Norway.

The overwhelming greenery of Oslo is incredible for a city of its size, and the surrounding areas are all forested, with little sprawl.

Similar to how Michiganders boast about always being close to a lake, Norwegians boast of always being close to a forest, even when in the heart of Oslo.

Socialism has also grown from the tradition of social equality: the numerous social programs that characterize the economic and social ‘Nordic model’ have helped create an incredibly even-leveled income range and social order.

Of course, the high taxes levied here are notorious elsewhere in the world, but with income comfortably high for all and an unemployment rate of 3 percent, complaints are few.

This combination of social equity and ecological awareness has created a quiet, peaceful culture that puts ‘green’ urban hipsters to shame.

That’s not to say such modern domestic movements are futile: our culture is simply based on different ideals and must somehow be changed if we hope to achieve similar results.

Whether or not we should hope to achieve such results is, of course, what we must now decide in our current political climate.

For now, I’ll just enjoy them here. And maybe I’ll go for a ski in Nordmarka when the snow comes.

Posted 4:26 PM 0 Comments

The island experience: the eyes of a young girl

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

By Samantha Lemmer
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

The question I posed was, “What would happen if we missed the boat and were stranded on this island?”

The answer I received was we would stay the night and be picked up in the morning. Blaming it on the language barrier, my roommate could not see I was probing into a deeper meaning, a question that went much further than transportation arrangements.

Traveling to the Volta Region for a spin around the world’s largest man made lake; all was well in my mind and in my heart. Besides a bit of car sickness and perhaps a few too many plantain chips- life was good, and as is usually the case, my conscience was clear, not a thought more penetrating than the lyrics of the Newton Faulkner song playing in my ears.

Had I known the bonus experience this mini “cruise” had in store for its passengers, perhaps I would have mentally prepared myself. Then I think, thank goodness I did not- because it was that experience that woke me up from my culture coma- my lack of culture shock- something I had been desperately craving since I arrived.

The emcee announced we would stop at the island, after three hours of cruising, for 15 to 30 minutes.

Having met some Americans and deeply engrossed in a game of Uno, I hesitantly decided to put down my cards and wonder off onto this island for a bit.

Our guide, from the center of international education, gave us a heads up and said there would be singing, dancing and cries from children for money. Shrugging it off as a situation I have found myself in before, I made my way off the boat.
Before I could even descend from the dock, a young girl, maybe three years old, grabbed my hand and led me up the stone stairs to the island.

The girl was beautiful but somber. Thinking back on the time spent with her, I never saw her smile once. She spoke no English, and I did not speak her language either.

However, there was an understanding between us, and words were not necessary. Looking into her eyes, I could see the agreement that was to be made. Those eyes said to me, “I will give you a glimpse into this life, into this situation so foreign to you if you help me to continue living it.”

As simple as that, a plea from a little girl for 20 or 50 pesawas as a means of survival.

Our guide told us the people on the island are experiencing excessive poverty, and the tourists who stopped by for 15 to 30 minutes to give them their spare change and watch the singing and dancing served as one of the main sources of income.
Wandering further down the path to the other side of the island, we found two young men offering rides in their canoes.
My roommate, Ann, and I decided to give it a try, but there was just one small issue… or rather three small issues- and those were the two boys grabbing on to each of her hands and my little girl still attached to me.

Making desperate eye contact, we knew we had to let them go, or rather- get them to let us go- before it became even more difficult to bid them farewell.

Remembering I walked on to the island with the intention of sparing a few coins, but saving most for the possibility of finding some pizza in the capital city on the way back- I felt disgusted with myself. I wondered how I could crave Krispy Kremes and cheese puffs, how I could be frustrated the outlet in our kitchen is broken and how I could not spend every waking moment being grateful for what was given to me both at home and here.

Stepping back onto the boat with the images of the little girl, the canoe ride, the bittersweet singing and dancing, the faces and the glimpse into a life I have never seen before- my mind was jam-packed with thoughts.

Wondering what I would do, had I been placed into a situation- a life such as the one I just saw, I posed the question.
“What would happen if we missed the boat and were stranded on this island?”

Maybe a question that could be addressed with a simple answer, but this was not the one I was searching for. Perhaps it could not be answered easily because the underlying question is much more difficult.

Could someone like me be uprooted, shaken around, have their world turned upside down and taken away and given the bare essentials for life, survive?
While I may never be able to know the answer to that question, it will be a lifetime spent dedicated to understanding, empathizing and aiding those who have been forced to live that hypothetical question every day, in a very real way.

In a way in which proof can be seen in a pair of eyes belonging to a beautiful, brave, little girl on an island in the Volta Region of Ghana, one who will forever be embedded in my mind and in my heart.

Posted 9:42 PM 0 Comments