Notes from Abroad

When in Rome, do as the Romans do

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 22:43:00 +0000

By Lyssa Auton
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

One of the most clichéd sayings in the entire English language, these eight words are incredibly powerful when put into action. For centuries, they have torn down cultural barriers, created relational ties between countries and helped us all learn to be a bit more tolerant of different societal norms.

For me, these words have become law while studying in Chile. I am here to learn, and therefore, I must take part in the Chilean culture.

Sometimes this is easy. The food here is delicious. With local specialties such as one kilo empanadas and some of the best wine in the entire world, I’m not one to complain. Sometimes it’s a little hard. For the life of me, I don’t understand why I can’t go barefoot in the house. Or why we have to wait until 11 p.m. to eat dinner.

And sometimes, it’s just weird- like following two giant dolls and 3 million Santiaguinos through the streets of the capital city for an entire afternoon.

And so begins our story. This year, Chile is celebrating its bicentennial. With countless festivals, theaters, concerts and other family-friendly activities, there isn’t a dull moment in Santiago. To kick off the year-long celebration of “Santiago a Mil,” two giant marionettes, La Pequeña Gigante and her tío, el Hombre Escafandra, paraded through the streets, attracting roughly 3 million Santiaguinos, Chileans and tourists. This was the giant dolls’ second visit to Santiago, operated by the French street theater company Royal de Luxe.

Giant is an understatement. La Pequeña Gigante (“Little Giant”) stands at 5 meters (approximately 16.4 feet), while her Tío (uncle) is double her size and stands approximately 32.8 feet tall. Even in a sea of people, these marionettes are impossible to miss.

Going in to this experience, I didn’t know what to expect. Urged by my host mom, I decided to head down to the central plaza to check it out. I arrived just as the Tío was waking up from his siesta near the central market and was immediately bombarded by a mass of people that the news coverage couldn’t even begin to display.

For four hours, I followed 3 million excited spectators around the city, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dolls. Dodging through the city, it was like a giant came of "I spy" or "hide-and-go-seek." People of all ages came to see these giant dolls; babies who couldn’t have been more than 2 weeks old were nestled against their parent's chest, while 90-year-old grandparents hobbled around, praying that they didn’t die of heatstroke.

Looking back, this will probably be an experience that I remember for the rest of my life. It was too weird to forget. But that day I also realized the depth of that clichéd saying: Taking part in another culture doesn’t merely help us become tolerant; it helps us discover who we truly are. Oddly enough, blindly following 3 million Santiaguinos was comforting. Santiago finally felt like home.

Costa Rica: What happened to Miss Independence?

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 22:29:00 +0000

By Lauren Pollard
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

Jan. 2, 3:15 a.m.: My day started out on the right foot, err rather right toe … actually it was my left toe. As I so bravely woke up that morning to my chirping frog alarm, I was ready to leave my parents and cleave to myself.

I was about to embark on my first solo flight and my first solo trip overseas. My parents woke up at 3:15 a.m. also, due to the fact that the noises of the frogs were a strange sound to be heard mid-winter in Michigan.

I boldly told them to go back to sleep, that I could take my luggage by myself out of our hotel room, brave it in the elevator alone and jump on the airport shuttle with ease. I hugged and kissed them both goodbye and with my shoulders raised to unusual heights, I began to wheel my bags out the door and as I did, one bag slipped from its carefully balanced position and the grip of my hand, landing directly on my big left toe.

“That ... was my toe,” was the only glimpse of weakness I was willing to show my parents. While choking back tears and trying to breathe so the shock of pain wouldn’t cause me to black out, I said, “I love you both!” I was out the door and in pursuit of a Band-Aid.

It’s funny how something such as studying abroad, a step I took in order to prove my independence, has taught me how to utilize dependence. For example is the couple I met on the airplane from Germany who spoke very little to absolutely no English. We chatted about foods my little German Grandma makes (because strudel and dumpling were the only German words I knew), and they asked me to translate into simpler words everything the pilot said over the loud speaker and how to fill out their visitor cards once we entered Costa Rica.

Or, the first weekend I arrived here, my Tico Family took my roommate Dannie and I to a carnival in downtown San Jose. I felt like a small child at Cedar Point for the first time. I’ve never envied children attached to their parents by a leash until then.

The carnival was packed with people speaking Spanish with an accent my classes did not prepare me for, jammed together and riding on rides that I’m pretty sure were the cause of many up-chucked churros.

We had to take a public bus there, and walk for a bit. The whole time my Tica Mama had her eye on me -- the very blonde American who stood out the most. I completely relied blindly on my Tico Family to safely get us to the carnival, walk around in the pitch black night and return to our home for the evening -- a family that I can only communicate with as if I was a 4 year old and a family that up until 48 hours prior, were complete strangers to me. Dependence at its finest.

Every time I look at my left toe, the toe that now doesn’t have a nail on it, I’m reminded of the risk it was for me to stretch outside of my extra cozy box of comfort by coming here and learning how to do things on my own. I think of how vital it is for us to be independent people but how much more fun and fulfilling life is when we learn to depend on one another.

*Churro: a delicious donut-like pastry sold at $0.50 a piece with dulce de leche, a caramel filling placed tenderly in the middle

*Tico/Tica: the name of locals who live in Costa Rica. Anyone foreign is known affectionately as a gringo/gringa, ie: Michigander for Michigan

A cultural jewel

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 00:33:00 +0000

By Dayna Barber
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

There is a rivalry that exists in Poland between the capital city of Warsaw and the cultural utopia of Krakow. Two thriving cities could not be more contrasting in nature than the stark, gray streets that connect the professional business elite of Warsaw and the enchanting cultural jewel of Eastern Europe that is Krakow.

This predicament had passed unnoticed by my colleagues and I until we descended beneath the cobble stone streets of the city and into the labyrinth of clubs and bars. More dungeon like than anything, these nooks and crannies are where Poles come to unwind and, very often, share with you their perspectives on this rivalry between the two great cities.

I still have not surmised a legitimate reason for this rivalry besides perhaps the friction between the football teams, cultural difference or the legends that accompany the creation of each city: Krakow's dragon that was slayed by a shoemaker and Warsaw's arrow shooting mermaid.

However, the cultural lure of Krakow tends to sweep me off my feet as the city is vibrant and historical with its winding medieval streets and the presence of an immense castle situated right on the beautiful Vistula river that flows through the southern edge of the city.

The Poles here are very friendly and eager to practice their English with you or your Polish with them. Krakow has an exceptionally large student population, since situated in various parts of the city are many universities including the oldest one in Poland that was established in 1364. The youth here have many opportunities to exploit in the galleries of various art venues or on the stages of music pubs.

One cannot walk down the street without seeing a flier for a Chopin concert or jazz club.

But mixed with the modernity of Krakow is the historical context which provides a look into the past of a country that has undergone some turbulent times. In Kazimierz, the old Jewish district in the south of Krakow, one can walk through what use to be the Krakow ghetto and view Schindler's factory where he protected his Jewish employees from being shipped to nearby concentration camps.

There are also many art galleries dedicated to the transformation and evolution of art after the fall of communism in Poland that has gained international attention.

A group of us were fortunate enough to attend one of these unique galleries called, The Hidden Decade, that provided a plethora of video art from the time frame of 1985-1995 when art was undergoing an evolution from the previous venues available under the Communist-era.

The gallery was ridden with numerous television sets that showed strange and abnormal images of the revolution movement. Black and white movies screened people jumping on mattresses, talking chickens and people smashing objects that gave an unusual but profound feeling of change and rebellion.

Most museums and art galleries exhibit classical and modern art but these special venues convey the emergence of a new generation of art that came out of the Communist era and evolved into what Polish artists create today.

Where voting isn't 'cool'

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 00:08:00 +0000

By Lyssa Auton

GVL Study Abroad Columnist

When I’m 30 and have to take medication for high blood pressure, I’ll blame politics.

As a United States citizen, I treasure my constitutional rights; namely, my freedom of speech and my right to vote.

However, just because I have the right to speak freely doesn’t mean anyone listens. Our government is a brick wall that I’ve talked to more than once. Nevertheless, I take pride in the fact that I have a say in who becomes the next president of the United States.

In terms of politics, I couldn’t have chosen a better time to study in Santiago, Chile: Election year!

I arrived incredibly excited to take part in the culture that surrounds the election of a president, and though I would not be able to vote, I looked forward to my participation in such matters.

On top of the normal excitement of a presidential election, this year was different for two principal reasons.

First, Chilean elections are typically held in December; however, the results from the initial election were too close to call and a run-off between the two candidates with the highest percentage of votes was called.

Secondly, this was the first time a right-winged candidate had a chance of winning since the end of the Pinochet dictatorship in 1990. Both factors made for an interesting race.

Having recently participated in the ground-breaking election of President Obama, I was curious to hear how the Chileans were feeling about their own unusual election.

What I heard did not surprise me. The majority of the youth were very passionate about the left-winged candidate Eduardo Frei. Many of the older generation feared the success of the right-winged candidate Sebastian Piñera, as he symbolized the atrocities they faced under the dictatorship. This I expected, what followed, I did not.

On January 17, 2010, only 7,186,344 out of almost 17 million Chilean citizens voted. Even worse, it is reported that only 9.2 percent of 18-29 year olds are even registered to vote.

Complacency is a strange thing. It’s a trait that I often attributed to North Americans in the past. We’re all guilty of it; talking the talk but not walking the walk.

I know few young U.S. citizens who were indifferent about the 2008 election and opted not to vote. For this younger generation, not voting was not “cool.” With celebrity-endorsed campaign messages such as P. Diddy’s “Vote or Die,” young people felt empowered to take a stand. Both parties were enthused. And we voted. For once, I’d say we got it right.

So, with such an important election, why did so many Chileans choose not to vote? It’s possible that the cultural “coolness” that drove our 2008 presidential election didn’t translate.

Another explanation may be a less efficient voting system. And yet another, that Chile is a country recovering from a staggering dictatorship that sucked out the confidence it takes to stand up for what you believe in. But your guess is as good as mine.

And for those of you that hate an open ending? Sebastian Piñera won with 51.61 percent of the vote. I have yet to meet someone who’s happy about this.

A walk through the park

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 23:04:00 +0000

By Dayna Barber
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

The last moments of my time in Hungary are growing near. After I am gone, I wonder what stark and prevailing images will remain in my mind of this small, Central European country.

From my very first moments here, during the summer when I was plunged into a pool of culture so unlike what I had expected, still to this day I have not fully recovered my breath but have learned to live with smaller inhales.

Life is a process in Hungary, an ongoing one, constantly transforming to the rhythm of modernization and liberalization in order to cast away the remaining shards of communist influence and catch up with those countries of the West.

The history of this country is long and not easily recounted. Foreign occupations and wars have traversed this land for centuries and the wounds are deep and fresh. Not merely 20 years ago, the Soviets withdrew from Hungary taking with them their totalitarian regime, but their presence remains in the cities and country side.

When you take the road north to Tokaj, the famous wine region of Hungary, one can see an old soviet tank perched eerily on the side of the road. In Budapest, some buildings still bear the scars from Soviet guns whose bullets pierced through the concrete.

In fact, the campus on which I study use to be a Soviet barracks, and it is almost inconceivable for me to imagine Soviet soldiers walking through these halls with their voices echoing off the tall, vaulted ceilings.

However, despite the prominent affect these features may have on one's mind, the most memorable attributes are the ones I see every day that appeared unsettling at first, but became oddly beautiful to me.

When walking along the lengths of the narrow streets, gaze upon the walls that accompany them. Many of the fences are topped with barbwire that were constructed by the Soviets during the occupation, and are now being shrouded by creeping vines trying to cover the past. Flowers blossom on these vines and it looks so strange in comparison, beautiful flowers laced with barbwire. The brick walls are crumbling but painted with massive portraits of graffiti, rebellious pictures and names scribbled haphazardly, as if in retaliation against the wall, marking their territory and reclaiming what is theirs.

The great forest, or park rather, that I walk through every day on my way to class holds such lovely scenery, but is slightly tainted by a haunted beauty. The park holds little surprises nestled in corners of overgrowth and shadow which conceal old monuments of people lost to the Soviets or the Nazis.

But they are forgotten, or at least they seem to be, hidden away from view in the depths of the park. Strange that on the main paths of the park, I see women and children playing gently, couples holding hands and people on their way to somewhere important.

But when you look off the main path, you see the elderly, walking slowly with hands clasped behind their backs, and you know that they have visited those old, hidden monuments to look upon the faces of a past hidden from sight and mind, but not forgotten.

These sights and sensations will be most memorable because they penetrated my heart with their sadness and will remain there because of their severe beauty.

Farewell concert

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 00:53:00 +0000

By Katie Booms

GVL Study Abroad Columnist

We were assigned a rock concert for homework, but we could not get tickets. Czech politicians had bought them all.

The National Theater is iconic to Prague. It was built to construct national identity, with money raised by average Czechs. Now the theater houses prestigious drama, opera and ballet. This week, it also hosted an old dissident rock band.

The Czech band The Plastic People of the Universe are most famous for being persecuted. During the restrictive era of 1970s Communism, they became a huge symbol of rebellion. Soon the band could only play in borrowed houses in the country. When the police found those houses, they burned them. Most of the band ended up in jail.

Needless to say, it was hard to imagine these old rockers on a stage with velvet curtains and gold neo-Renaissance architecture. Their music is anything but prestigious.

The night became stranger when my professor had to call the band’s drummer and sneak us through the back of the building.

Maybe I should have been less surprised that the Czech government had reserved the National Theater for the short Plastic People concert and the Tom Stoppard play "Rock n roll." In honor of the 20th anniversary of the Berlin Wall’s collapse this November, it seems as though every event in Central Europe has turned into a celebration of political freedom.

I was not prepared for suits and champagne. In turn, the politicians looked like they were not prepared for straggly beards and amplifiers. Most of them waited in the lobby until the band left and the play started. Several people who sat down put their fingers in their ears.

My classmates lined up in the aisles near the stage. We stood out because of our bookbags. We were also the only ones clapping.

The music was pretty terrible. But, it was loud and full of energy. It also felt like a historical moment. The band was straight out of the documentary we had watched in class. Only, they had more wrinkles and they were not treated as heroes.

Afterward, we met the bassist and saxophonist in the private bar for performers. They went through bad Czech wine and told us they did not want to talk about politics. Then we talked about politics.

I will be home in less than a week. I still do not know how to describe Prague, but this will be one of the stories I tell. Prague is a rare place where history and the present interact. It is a place where I am hardly surprised to find old heroes in the back of a smoky bar.

Don't talk to strangers!

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 19:42:00 +0000

By Carrie Schoenborn
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

Ever since I was a mere child, I have always been warned against talking to strangers. This admonition has followed me into adulthood and even today it takes great courage for me to walk up to someone I don’t know and begin a conversation.

Whether one calls this fear or shyness, it is a problem that must be overcome when one studies in a foreign country.

Everyone finds a different solution to this dilemma and each has its own results. They may talk to people that are most like them and, therefore, gain friends that are tourists similar to themselves. They may meet one person and use that friendship to meet more people. Each method has its own drawbacks and benefits.

Many people who live in Florence have told me, "Florence really is a small city," referring to the fact that once you know enough people, you will always run into people you know around the city.

I wanted to find a way to get over my shyness in order to meet enough people that I would feel the “smallness” of the city Florentines feel.

Soon the perfect opportunity presented itself in the one form that I am most comfortable with: art. I am taking Introduction to Digital Photography and our latest assignment: take pictures of strangers. CLOSE UP.

With my little point-and-shoot camera, zooming in isn’t a feasible option so I will need to get close to people. There is no pretending to take a picture of something else while actually taking a picture of the subject.

I begin by learning a key phrase in Italian; “Posso fare una foto per scuola?” (Can I take a picture for school?)

Then the search begins. Wandering the streets of Florence, I scope out potential victims and shyly make my first attempt.

How harmful can it be to ask three little old ladies if I can take their picture?

I approach them and, surprisingly, they say yes. When I begin to move in close, however, the first woman becomes very upset and almost begins to cry!

I am determined not to let this stop me and continue to seek out people. I soon discover that with a few exceptions, most people are completely willing to allow me to take their photo, even if the camera is being held mere inches away from their face. Many even say thank you when I am done.

Since this discovery, I have taken dozens of pictures of people on the street and, consequently, have come to realize how small Florence really is.

I continue to run into several people who I have photographed. Some recognize me and some don’t, but just being able to walk around the city and recognize faces makes it feel less like a tourist attraction and more like home. (And I got some amazing photos!)

Ciao from the American in Italy.

Academic responsibility

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 02:30:00 +0000

By Corey Kapolka
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

Months ago, as I learned my way around campus during my first week here in Oslo, I met a witty Norwegian graduate student named Milo.

He gave me a thorough introduction to how things worked at the university, though I didn’t quite take him seriously when he described how the semester would progress. As finals now bear down upon us, I can see that he was quite right, and I find myself regretting not listening to Milo’s advice a bit more intently.

The University of Oslo has a policy of "personal responsibility" that reaches into many of its students’ lives. This forces students to take their education into their own hands, which certainly seems like a good thing.

It also, however, includes an unfortunate lack of lecture hours and quality lecturers, which means most of what students learn in a class comes in the libraries.

There are also incredibly few assignments during the semester and, aside from classes with midterms, I have heard of none that actually count toward the final grade. (These are pass/fail and required to sit for the exam.)

Grades are usually exclusively assigned by how one performs on the final exam and/or project, which puts an incredible amount of pressure on the students for the final few weeks of classes.

Because of a lack of graded content to provide motivation (in concert with the unfortunate lack of good lectures), students largely don’t bother studying throughout the semester unless they have personal interest in the subject material.

This creates a massive cramming period during the few weeks before finals begin that is plainly evident on campus. Formerly sparsely populated libraries are now bursting with people, and instead of hopping among a plurality of parties on weekends, it seems that everyone has suddenly adopted hermitic lifestyles.

This behavior can be somewhat evident at GVSU, but not nearly to the extent that I have seen in Oslo. The stark contrast between lazy lecture attendance and feverish text reading is astounding.

I may simply be ignorant to how major research universities work because I’m only really familiar with the teaching style at GVSU.

Perhaps the fact that I am so used to our typical class demands and access to helpful professors means I’m unsuited for UiO’s brand of "personal responsibility."

But frankly, I don’t find this pattern of academic acedia with a tail end of library bingeing to be conducive at all to good learning. It seems content to assume students are educating themselves with the ample free time it affords them, and indeed some do.

I, however, would take a quality instructor over a book any day.

Realizing Reality

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 23:57:00 +0000

By Samantha Lemmer
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

I was a victim of the westernized portrayal of Africa. Even referring to such a vast land as one entity, “Africa” makes me cringe.

How is it possible to lump so many different cultures and societies into one? Easy, I suppose. Through splashing our televisions with images of young children with big eyes and frowns on their faces, filling our ears with the pleas of Bono to join the latest celebrity campaign for “Africa," and in general further fueling the false view that the entire continent is a charity case, we are able to believe what we are told, instead of seeing for ourselves.

While it is true there are many areas on the continent experiencing mass hunger, inadequate health and education and high rates of diseases such as HIV/AIDS, there are also many areas thriving and propelling themselves into first world status. One of these areas experiencing success is Ghana.

Ghana, as the first country to obtain independence from colonial rule, has served as a model for other African countries. The promise of such a young state can be seen in visiting its capital, Accra, which my roommates and I had an opportunity to do.

Accra is bustling. Staying in an area called Osu, I could have easily thought I was in Atlanta or Chicago. There were many hip bars and restaurants, large shopping malls and no shortage of traffic- a must-have for any major city.

Having come from Cape Coast just hours before, a small town making up in beauty what it lacks in attractions and nightlife, my roommates and I were a bit culture shocked when we arrived in Accra.

Mamma Mia, the Italian restaurant in Osu and first stop on our list, might as well have been Italy itself!

The menu was extensive and atmosphere was spot-on for an Italian restaurant. These people really knew their stuff!

Venus, the bar and nightclub down the road from our hostel served as a mixing bowl for all different sorts of people. European residents, Ghanaian businessmen and women, grubby backpackers such as ourselves, and any other type of person all intermingled and discussed issues of the world as if we were old friends.

The supermarket, which I stood in the entrance of holding back the temptation to A) faint or B) dance down the aisles, had all sorts of American and European food. As I was marveling at the selection of Lay’s potato chips and cheese at the deli, my mouth hanging slightly open in awe, local shoppers whisked by me, going about their everyday routines.

For them, this was life. Life as a citizen of Accra, is as different as possible from the westernized view of “life as an African.”

Going to Accra taught me a lot. It taught me that so often in life we are misled into believing a biased view on a foreign subject. The trip made me wonder how long I would have gone on simply believing and not finding out for myself.

On the tro-tro ride home, I counted my lucky stars that I had this opportunity to come to an area that is often discussed, but rarely discussed accurately. I wish more people had that chance, and I wish that those who do have it, will take it!

My study abroad experience has had an incredibly large effect on everything I previously thought, believed and blindly followed in the past. I am realizing the world is vastly different from what I was shown and told at home. Due to this time spent in Ghana, I am finally realizing reality.

'England ... it's in Europe, right?'

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 02:26:00 +0000

By Travis Kovaleinen

GVL Study Abroad Columnist

I think most Americans have a general idea of how others stereotypically view them. Of course there is great variance amongst the attributes pegged to us; sometimes we are said to be generous, other times money hungry.

We have been said to be ignorant of international affairs (true all too often), monolingual (also quite sadly too often accurate) and loud.

Oh yeah, and we‘re supposed to be fat. To make matters worse, the eight years of the Georgre Bush Jr. presidency did not seem to have done much good for our general reputation.

President Obama has definitely helped in improving the way others view Americans as evidenced by international polls often cited in the news.

However, beside the stereotypes already all too prevalent, there is something that can influence others´ perceptions of us even more strongly while abroad: our behavior.

On my daily 30 minute commute to the University of Iceland I take “þrysturinn,” the colloquial term for Bus 3, and usually have a pleasant and silent ride while I admire the scenery.

Recently while Bus 3 was stopped at one of the major stations a pair of obvious tourists entered the bus. Their backpacks bulged to the seams, and they were a bit overweight.

I began to play the game with myself that I think most people residing in an area that gets a lot of visitors inevitably tend to find themselves doing- “guess the nationality!”

It did not take long to discern their country of origin when they quickly broke the silence – which is more or less upheld by nearly all Icelanders while on public transit in the daytime – with their mild southern drawl.

One of the guys sat next to a particularly attractive girl and started up a conversation with her after having been semi-loudly discussing something with his friend.

“England…isn’t that in Europe?” he began.

At first I wasn’t eavesdropping too attentively, but then I couldn’t help myself after having noticed this bit of conversation. My stomach tensed in embarrassment. This is not something an American is supposed to say.

I got my notebook out and began transcribing. This appeared to be the realization of American stereotypes I had heard and read of for years unfortunately unfolding before me.

“Ha?” the Icelandic girl blurted. [haː] is the Icelandic way of using an interrogative “what,” though it sounds quite like someone is oddly laughing at you at first.

“England, it’s in Europe, right?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she quipped.

“”Ever been to Europe?” he continued

“Yes.” She said, seeming to be quickly losing her patience after that intellectually-stimulating question about England.

“Ever been ta’ Amsterdam?” he said with an intonation I am sure he meant to be suave.

“Yes,” she said, continuing to display her disinterest by only answering his questions and saying nothing afterward until asked something else.

“They’ve got some cool coffee shops over there I’ve heard,” he said, still using this voice that was an attempt to sound really cool, as if he felt he were sharing some big secret with her about Amsterdam’s infamous – or possibly famous depending on your stance – marijuana cafés.

At any rate, drug usage beyond alcohol is actually quite taboo in Iceland so he was not making a good impression by assuming she liked marijuana and wanted to discuss pot cafés.

Furthermore, she had already traveled there so I think it is likely she already knew about the nature of some of the cafés, but this is beside the point.

He went on to ask her some more questions about Iceland, which were overly general. For example, he asked her what kind of music Icelandic people listen to and if they have “shopping malls, ya´ know, big stores?’’

This is behavior which I hope none of us will repeat.

After all, whenever we leave the country we are essentially ambassadors. It goes without saying that we should always be on good behavior and polite to others, you know, basic pre-school stuff.

I believe we should also have some basic geography skills, don't you? While we are abroad let's try just a bit harder. I think discussions about drugs and assuming developed countries don´t have “big stores” or that everyone in that country, despite age differences for one, listen to the same music and so on should be reconsidered.

Well, I hope this story is at the very least somewhat entertaining and perhaps helps a few people who might otherwise repeat this behavior, though I’d like to think that unlikely.

Oh, and enjoy you the cold weather in Michigan! It’s actually significantly warmer here during the winter due to something called the Gulf Stream. Happy holidays from Iceland!

Tricks and treat on all holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 23:15:00 +0000

By Katie Booms
GVL Study Abroad Columnis

I admit that I know little about Memorial Day or Labor Day, but at least I know what to expect (not much). Figuring out the significance of holidays in foreign countries is a lot more complicated.

I spent Halloween in Krakow, Poland. There, locals celebrate All Saints Day and All Souls Day instead.

The city was clearly divided between shops catering to either foreign tourists or to locals.

Many stores sold flowers and glass candles to put on the gravestones of deceased Polish loved ones. A strong minority had Halloween bat posters, pumpkins out front, and masks in the windows.

Unfortunately, I did not feel safe enough to walk alone to the glowing cemeteries at night, and it was a new friend’s 21st birthday, so I joined the group who went looking for Halloween.

As we walked, we saw a few people dressed as vampires and one Superman.

Pumpkins were lit on store doorsteps. One group of people carried their own jack o' lantern, but they were wearing swine flu masks instead of costumes. They also did not speak English.

We finally settled for the Indigo Bar in the tourist center. It was empty except for a few Irishmen and some bachelors in matching “Italian Stallion” T-shirts. There were orange streamers with pumpkins hanging over the bar, and the Rammstein music was eerie.

But even with these usual Halloween symbols, the spirit was missing. A lot of Central Europeans I talked to know something about American holidays but do not understand them.

Similarly, I had only Wikipedia knowledge of All Saints Day, even though my ancestors are Polish Catholics.

Therefore I was not totally surprised by the large crowds of Poles buying grave decorations and lining up by cemeteries outside the tour bus window, but I missed the true experience.

The cultural gap has been even wider with the national political holidays I had never even heard of before.

I still have no idea how most Czechs celebrate Independent Czechoslovak State Day on Oct. 28 because most of them go to the country or stay inside.

I stayed inside, too, after I realized the gathering with a loud-speaker outside my apartment was actually a neo-Nazi demonstration.

When I was in Budapest, there were similar political riots that built on the meaning of their national holiday on the anniversary of political revolution.

I never would have expected these reactions to the dates on the calendars. I could not even tell what the people were rioting about because of the language and context barriers.

I can only expect more surprises from Struggle for Freedom and Democracy Day next week in November.

katiebeebooms@yahoo.com

Città della Creatività

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:10:00 +0000

By Carrie Schoenborn
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

It is often said that Florence is “where the Renaissance was born” and the city certainly lives up to this legacy. Everywhere the eye happens upon, there is an example of Renaissance artwork.

If the building you are walking past, around or through isn’t a direct result of the Renaissance, you can bet that it houses at least one example of Renaissance work.

While this is an amazing fact and a huge draw to bring people to Florence, it also raises a big question. What about contemporary artists and architects in Florence? Do they have an outlet or do they all simply create works that are reminiscent of the Italian Renaissance?

Stumbling my way through this question, I begin by asking my drawing professor if there are any contemporary art galleries in Florence. I had already been to a couple of small galleries, but both contained contemporary work by artists from other countries. Being an art professor and a studio artist working in Florence, I figure she is the one to ask.

“No, not really,” she replies in a thick Italian accent. I leave class disappointed, but still not convinced. A city can’t just stand still and constantly live in the past can it? Continuing my search for answers, I go to Casa della Creatività for the first meeting of Creative Campus, an organization that helps introduce study abroad students to local artists.

Amazing. There is a large variety of artists focusing their work on a range of mediums and topics including light, gardening, painting, film and theater. Creative Campus is embarking on a new project: they were given a space for Festival della Creatività, a festival of creativity that draws hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. This year’s theme for the festival is “Future Cities: City of the Future, Future of the City.”

I anxiously join a group that is interested in investigating contemporary architecture (or lack thereof) in the city. We begin with a tour of contemporary architecture and I soon discover that, although it is hidden in the outskirts of the town, contemporary architecture does exist in very limited quantities around Florence. I also soon receive invitations to contemporary art shows from the other members of my group.

I discover that despite the historic focus of the city, contemporary work is happening all over the city inside the Renaissance covered walls, the key is knowing where to look.

The problem is that so many visitors to Florence come BECAUSE of the Renaissance work, but it seems that many artists are working IN SPITE of it.

While viewing a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition at La Galleria dell’Accademia (the same museum that houses the famous David by Michelangelo), I see a woman glance down the hall of Mapplethorpe photographs and say “Oh, there’s nothing in here to see,” and walk by to view another of the thousands of marble statues created by someone hundreds of years ago that she’ll never remember when she returns home.

Whether or not there is a solution to this problem remains in question, but in the meantime I have to go to an opening at EX3, the new contemporary art gallery in Florence and it will take about an hour to walk there so I better get started now.

Ciao from the American in Italy.

cschoenborn@lanthorn.com

Practical Socialism

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 22:37:00 +0000

By Corey Kapolka
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

I recently had an interesting conversation in one of the student pubs on campus with a German classmate regarding social theories.

There’s a particular egalitarian idea that I found interesting to discuss which stems from utopian ideals; citizens of a given society should strive towards a common goal of social harmony and act accordingly.

Essentially, just do what’s best for the good of all. A basic concept, most people would probably agree with it, but it’s sometimes sadly absent from our actions. As we talked, I concluded this was an ideal that could be found running thick through the veins of the Norwegian social structure.

There’s a strange duality in Norway between personal sociableness and public social issues. Norwegians in general are very quiet and aren’t very sociable without a few drinks in them, but they support massive social programs through high taxation.

I can only imagine the uproar even the suggestion of imposing a 28 percent sales tax in the States would bring, but that’s what we pay here on everything but food products. (Then it’s merely 14 percent.)

Yet I haven’t heard many complaints. I’ve, in fact, met many strong supporters of the system. Norway established the underpinnings of its social democracy long ago, so its citizens understand the benefits of having large social programs.

It’s because of that understanding that the social systems work; it all relies on the adherence to their common goal of an egalitarian society, because a public backlash against the system could change things in a flash.

With such high taxes, Norway is quite an expensive place to live. Oslo is, in fact, the most expensive city to live in on Earth, so why are people content to lose so much money to taxation?

I, for one, don’t think they’re losing anything. The benefits created by public funding are incredibly valuable, more valuable to individuals than the money they contribute.

It’s astounding what benefits people receive here, from extended paid maternity leave to free higher education and excellent public transportation.

It should be noted, however, that Norway’s economy is suffused with oil exports from their lucrative reserves along the coast. I’ve heard all kinds of arguments over whether or not it’s the oil that makes Norway, and Oslo in particular, a nice place to live, and there’s no ignoring the fact that a strong export market does contribute to Norway’s impressive GDP per capita. The perpetual question on everyone’s minds is what Norway will do once the oil runs out.

In my mind, I doubt much will change. Despite having the socialist tag, which implies massive spending, the Government and Storting (executive and legislative branches, respectively) have been remarkably responsible with the surplus generated from the state oil company Statoil and saved the vast majority of it away in a reserve fund.

This means despite having a bit of extra support from exports, the social programs function primarily on regular taxes. With that being the case, I reason that so long as the populace continues to abide by their egalitarian principles, Norway will retain its social structure and remain a very pleasant place to live.

kapolkac@mail.gvsu.edu

Food fast? A phenomenon of my past

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 22:35:00 +0000

By Samantha Lemmer
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

Opportunities to eat fast food, I have learned, are few and far between in Cape Coast.

Many of the meals consumed in Ghana take hours to prepare. The dish that stands out in one’s mind when asked about typical Ghanaian food is Fufu.

Fufu is a mixture of mashed plantain and cassava, pounded until reaching the texture of a somewhat stretchy version of mashed potatoes. The Fufu is served with a stew, composed of vegetables and some type of meat.

It is imperative, I have been told, for all of the newcomers to Ghana to try Fufu. Taking this challenge a bit further, I joined my friend Eugene to prepare our own batch of Fufu.

Eugene met me at my hostel, and we walked to his village, Akototyr. The walk should normally take about twenty minutes, but with all the introductions to the villagers, as well as taking time to address the children who shouted “Obruni!” (white person) my way, we managed to stretch the walk to an hour and a half!

Village life is much different from living on campus in Cape Coast. Poverty is more evident in these rural areas, and dirt floors, lack of running water and lack of electricity are the norm.

Despite these hardships, the overall attitude of the village is very positive, and the people I met on my trip to Akototyr greeted me with warm smiles and shouts of “Akwaaba!” (Welcome!)

After bargaining with the women in the market, Eugene and I gathered all of the necessary ingredients for our Fufu and stew. Cassava and plantains for the Fufu, tomatoes, garden eggs, onions, sweet potatoes, other vegetables, fish and some sort of meat I will guess was goat meat for the stew.

In order to cook the ingredients, we started a fire underneath a small charcoal burner. Due to my lack of skills of peeling vegetables without a peeler, my job was to fan the flames to keep the fire burning.

We fetched water from outside of the house, which was in a large bucket. Once the stew was well on its way to cooking and smelling great, we turned our attention to the Fufu.

The tools used to pound Fufu are the pedestal and the pounder. Pounding Fufu can be done by one person, but it is preferable to have two.

The first person turns the dough over while in a kneeling position, and the second person uses the pounder to mash the cassava and plantains. The process is long, tiring, and when it comes to beginners, dangerous!

Many times I was afraid I would smash Eugene’s fingers as he was turning over the dough! But all is well that ends well, and once we finished pounding, the stew was also ready. We sat down to indulge in the fruits of our labor.

Coming from a place in which food is available at my fingertips, a place in which I would become anxious after waiting more than four minutes in a drive-thru and a place that prides itself on food fast, pounding Fufu was an eye-opening experience.

While it was hard work to prepare the meal, it was a time in which I learned new things and bonded with a friend. Throughout the course of the day, I learned about Eugene’s family, his studies, village life and even picked up some Fanti language speaking with his grandmother.

Though it may be true fast food allows one to get their food and go, I have to wonder how much I could experience while waiting in line for four minutes or so. For now, I will stick with taking things a bit slower- "slow food," while not as catchy of a phrase, has a richer flavor and comes with extra time to let the taste linger.

lemmers@mail.gvsu.edu

Maybe I live in Europe

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 01:52:00 +0000

By Travis Kovaleinen
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

By definition I have been living in a European country for the last 10 months, but Iceland just doesn´t quite seem to cut it.

You see, in congruity with the fact that this little Kentucky-sized island country physically lies on both the North American and Eurasian geological plates is that its culture appears to be a striking amalgamation of both sides of the Atlantic.

I remember when I first arrived having been carrying the expectation I would easily embrace the public transit system in this “European” country.

Instead I found out most Icelanders finished with high school do their best to avoid ever stepping foot in a “strætó,” the Icelandic word for bus.

The reasoning behind this is simple: Iceland is a car country.

People show little reservation to driving everywhere and building urban-sprawl in an American way despite gasoline costing upwards of 8.00 U.S. dollars per gallon.

And Icelanders, similar to their American counterparts, like their cars big.

An invitation I received to a party several months ago was to begin in a hummer limousine, entailing much wasted gas for the purpose of frivolity.

Even after the economic crisis I still don´t go a single day without passing an uncountable number of Range and Land Rovers (the automobile of choice apparently), large jeeps and even the occasional Lincoln Navigator for good measure.

This SUV infatuation wasn´t always so visible, but with the highly inflated collective credit score of the nation, most notably in 2007, the floodgates for the fleets of luxury SUVs were agape.

In addition to the car-loving nature of the people, there are strong elements of consumerism less evident in other European countries.

Icelanders are particularly keen on new technology, home renovations and the newest clothes.

Advertisements are sleek. Trends are noted and given an Icelandic twist. Flat screen televisions and touch-screen cell phones have quickly become the norm.

When I go to the local gym I undergo a 007-like laser eye scan just to take a dip in the pool.

Credit and Debit cards are accepted everywhere, even in taxis and at the smallest kiosks in the middle of the vast and almost completely uninhabited highlands; I have never even once seen an Icelander use their ornate “krónur,” or crowns, Icelandic currency.

I am told pulling out any real money is a dead giveaway for being a tourist. Real Icelanders exclusively use plastic.

While analyzing these impressions I had of Icelandic society I decided it would be a good idea to ask some mainland Europeans their views regarding to which continent Iceland culturally belongs.

I was once laughed at for having previously considered it to be Europe.

This is all not to say this similarity between the two countries is disappointing or that it makes Iceland feel identical to the U.S.

There is still a tremendously lower crime rate, universal healthcare, nearly free university by American standards and amazing hot spring heated outdoor pools countrywide.

Politically Iceland may have recently had many right-wing elements, but they only extended to the fiscal issues; perhaps surprising to Americans, Icelanders happily elected a 66-year-old, married, lesbian prime minister in February.

But despite the cultural elements which are not very prevalent in the United States, the similarities are still so numerous that I have easily managed to feel quite comfortable.

Living in Iceland is more similar to living in Michigan than one might imagine.

trakov@gmail.com

Driving through Prague

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 16:51:00 +0000

By Katie Booms
GVL Study Abroad Columnist

I did not think my first article from the Czech Republic would be about cars.

Although I grew up on the East side of Michigan and my mother worked for General Motors until the factory closed, I only cared about cars when mine stopped working.

Prague’s public transportation system is excellent, so I was shocked by how congested the streets are with private vehicles.

The network of public trams, buses, metro tunnels and trains to nearby towns is unlike anything I have seen in the United States.

Unlimited monthly passes for students are only 400 koruna, about $20, and anyone can get a single ticket for a dollar.
Besides, the cobblestone streets here are narrow, steep and angling. I would never drive on them, but Czech drivers tackle them as aggressively as all other obstacles.

The Automotive Industry Association’s annual statistics show there is one car for every two people living in Prague. They will park on curbs and stop in the middle of intersections before they give up driving.

I have learned a lot about Czechs from their love of cars.

The favoritism and corruption still entrenched in the government becomes clear when politicians use the lights on top of their cars to weasel out of traffic jams. Cars are a near-universal status symbol, and Czech vehicles show the gap between socio-economic classes that has swelled since the country embraced capitalism in 1989.

When I see a row of sleek BMWs and Audis, I know I am near Parizska Street, ritzy art galleries, Cartier and Coach. If I surface at a random metro stop and see sporty European hybrids, I know I am in a nice residential district.

Most commercial centers are overparked with cars advertising everything from pizzerias to theater. Cars get boxier and more colorful farther out of town. In industrial suburbs, people drive old vans with homemade curtains.

Cars are a symbol of freedom for Czechs, not just status. Under communist control, they were not allowed to travel without permits. They rarely splurged on cars, and if they did, there was fear their cars might be requisitioned for someone else.
Having a car means having independence, even more than for American 16-year-olds. Of course this idealizes capitalism, and a common Czech joke is they still cannot go anywhere because they work too much.

Only these proud and ironic Czechs would name one of their largest car companies Skoda, a Czech surname that means “pity.”
Prague vehicles have charm and attitude. The many antique cars, even the ‘80s Fords, add to Prague’s endearing timelessness.

Many cars are also personalized. I see a lot of the familiar elliptical stickers with place names in back windows, only they spell “CZ” for the Czech Republic instead of “GR” for Grand Rapids.

“Baby on Board” window clings are popular here, and one Toyota SUV sported a bumper decal of a baby and an American flag. Stuffed Pokemon characters, Bart Simpsons and cute animals dangle from rearview mirrors.

Prague would not be the same without the hustle and variety of its cars, even though I wish they were not in the middle of all my castle pictures.

Italians break all the rules!

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 23:15:00 +0000

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.

schoenbc@mail.gvsu.edu

From Oslo, Norway: The socialist monarchy

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 20:26:00 +0000

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.

The island experience: the eyes of a young girl

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 01:42:00 +0000

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.

lemmers@mail.gvsu.edu

They´ll party hard, pay later

noreply@blogger.com (Web Team) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 23:12:00 +0000

By Travis Kovaleinen

GVL Notes From Abroad Columnist

Iceland is by far one of the most infamous countries in the recent saga of the global economic crisis. Images of unfinished extravagant building projects and empty housing have been gracing the covers of well-known newspapers for months. One might expect this to mean there would be a grim air to the daily life, but this has not been the case.

Despite its population being only 300,000 - or roughly 3 percent the size of Michigan´s population on an island the size of Kentucky - the small capitol city of Reykjavík has been brimming with activity since I arrived in January.

This positive disposition is apparently deeply rooted in the culture, with its own special term ''Þetta Reddast,'' which translates to ''everything´s gonna´ be all right.'' Bob Marley reference intended. Whatever the origin of this mentality may be, the main suspect perhaps being the need to have developed some form of immunity to the extremely long dark winters, it has proved very refreshing to be around.

Imagine if tomorrow you received a phone call and were told your car loan was going to be doubled because a few bankers in your country got carried away with risky investments that soured. Well, that is exactly what has happened here along with a host of other unfortunate economic happenings.

Bankruptcies are at an all-time high, many food imports have doubled in line with the króna´s depreciation, and many businesses are not surprisingly doing poorly. I´ve met 19 year olds who owe nearly the U.S.´s per capita income on not so spectacular cars due to having unknowingly taken out a loan tied to foreign currency. Have they been miserable? The answer is likely yes, but it has not been easy to see.

Every holiday has been celebrated with surprising vigor, which seems to be culminating to a climax as the year comes to its end. This last Saturday the ''Menningarnótt,'' or ''Cultural Night'' drew in more than 100,000 participants to attend various concerts, art exhibits and eat at makeshift sidewalk cotton candy kiosks.

In line with every normal weekend, the celebration lasts well past 4 a.m. and even 5 a.m., which is technically closing time for those bars that choose to abide. No one seems to have gotten the memo that the country is supposedly broke. Any excuse to party is welcomed and the wallets and beer bottles seem to open effortlessly.

Possibly this behavior helped get Icelanders into this mess, and maybe it will help them get out of it, as illogical as that sounds. After all, some upbeat thinking just might suit an entire nation better than being down in the dumps.

notes@lanthorn.com