Thursday, June 26, 2008
Eight days ago, I was above the Atlantic Ocean, and now, I sit grounded at my desk, hundreds of photos still needing organized, printed & arranged in albums. When did the time between applying for my passport, reserving flights & trains & now go? When did complaining about football in Vienna become reading about its cultureless effects in the New York Times? I reread these entries & think fondly, longingly of my experience in Europe—a tour I was only planning a few months ago. “No one really excepts the futures, no one truly believes it can happen. All that is, is now” (Oates), And now, the future is past. Memories. Even those can never be entirely captured or recalled—
An evening in Liverpool spent locating Brian Epstein’s grave, the sun setting on our return to the bus stop. Children circling the block on their bicycles, cars parked on lawns, Allison’s first order of chips. A long wait for our bus, but no matter: we told stories of high school & marveled over the moon’s fullness—the same moon glowing around the world. A lucky pence. Missing our stop on a late-night London bus & retracing the route to our hostel. Subways! Our first glimpses of Houses of Parliament & Big Ben; approaching the Eiffel Tower—oh, Paris! Sporadic, random recollections (green grass, dusty paths, disguised beggars) will surface, some recorded, others eventually forgotten. And that’s life—
Regretfully, my entries of Europe are coming to an end. Upon deciding against teaching in Korea, a dear friend reminded me of my unique ability of seeing the world by way of art. It’s true, but not traveling. As laborious as living out of a suitcase is, as physically & mentally exhausting as constant movement is, countries, cultures, are more realized, more deserved. Earned. I can experience the world via art, but I cannot exist interactively in Erie, PA. A semi-frequent homesickness hindered my activities (often induced by situational stress), yet sorting photos, rifling through souvenirs & scraps, I want nothing but to return! Great to be home, of course (awkward, first stepping into the sunroom, my bedroom; everything felt short, as congested as the insides of my luggage), friends & family treating me to restaurants in exchange for my company & stories of Europe. I’ve eaten out so frequently this past week, it’s as if I’ve abandoned eating at home! And coincidentally, a used copy of Renée Fleming’s autobiography (waiting for me) at Salvation Army, rescued from the shelf with excited immediacy & pride. Considerations of Ireland next summer (finances permitting) to celebrate William’s graduation; further explorations of France & an introduction to Spain with Rae when I complete my graduate studies. (Wanderlust.) Again, I arrived at my question: will future ever materialize into present?
It was relieving, once again, to hear (in Paris) French, and finally, English. Not that I ever felt insecure or lost amidst German—I didn’t (at any rate, so many, especially younger generations, know English, too)—or even minded it, but how refreshing to hear the familiar sounds (hardly noticing British accents) of one’s native language. I could’ve been fluent in French and/or German (and would, one day, relish knowing French), and still, I’d fell relief, my brows relaxing—English. And then, Chicago, and not five minutes after Allison says, “Ah, American accents,” I overhear a woman working airport security: “It don’t make no difference.” “And there are America’s double negatives.” I’d so immersed myself in Europe’s culture, I forgot I was running from them. Interesting (in hindsight, expected), no fluency in French (un peu, un peu) and few German words (danke, bitte, schloss, Sprechen sie Englisch?) one notices, based on tone, appearance, dress & body language, if x native is speaking properly or poorly. Foreigner or not, first impressions are rarely misperceived, and language is everything (please, Plato, hush). And so, the issue of surrounding myself with other educated individuals living for (unable to live without) art.
Speaking to me it’s made obvious, and reinforced in these entries, the significance (essentialness) of history & history’s relationship to art. What weddings, coronations were held in x cathedral? What tragedies, wars occurred in the streets of x city? Whose attendance has graced grand theatres? Oh, if these buildings could talk! If art could share intimate secrets! Who sneered—“That’s not art!”—another crying over the exact piece. Legendary or not (thought I’m giddy over art’s celebrated figures), I devour history’s (nonpolitical) stories. Strange enough to remind myself Virginia Woolf sat, worked, in the very Bloomsbury Square I’m visiting, Beethoven walked the same cobblestones, saw the city wall (now graffiti-covered ruins) I’m now seeing, let alone the amazement of world-traveling family & friends: Aunt Pat at Westminster Abbey, Linda at Versailles, in Paris, Grand Dad & Grandma Madeline at Mozart’s Salzburg Geburtshaus, in Munich, Aunt Pat & Uncle Tom at Neuschwanstein, living in Germany. Never odd locally; we’ve all went to the same malls, libraries, theatres & beaches, but abroad? How selfish to think, upon my departure, a place ceases to exist! Again, familiar vs. unfamiliar (or foreign). I enjoyed (though my checkbook argues) sending postcards chronicling my travels, proving the continual growth & lasting endurance of cities. Just how many cards? 64. Sent, that is—73 for my album. 5 letters. On postage: £7.62, €59 (c. $100)! Money spent well.
I wonder, has Dad flown out of Heathrow? As I recall, only Gatwick, but either way, he’s never spent the night! Only GE-provided luxury hotels & first class airfare. What an experience that was, washing my face & brushing my teeth while nightshift janitors cleaned around me; writing; restless sleep with my travel pillow (“Slumber Jack”) softening our luggage, repeatedly started awake, only to discover ten minutes had passed. By 6:30, signs of life appeared, the only coffee I paid for in Europe was bought, and by 8:30, Allison & I had our boarding passes, checked our suitcases and were in line to be potentially raped by security, no questions asked—my scissors (in British accent: “Sorry, you can’t carry on your Harry Potter scissors.”), surviving college & now, five weeks (unused) in Europe, were confiscated & tossed. How did an endless night end? How many others (we certainly weren’t alone) have since undergone such ordeals to return home? A day—fourteen hours (three trains & London’s tube)—from Berlin to England’s capital, deciphering departure screens, payphone calls to Erie & using the airport’s restroom as if at home (utterly obvious, sitting on cold linoleum floors, that I was not.) I was out, seeing the world—current schedule: experiencing graveyard shifts of international airports. But this time, no eavesdropping on British passengers, catching casual glimpses (as if they appeared differently) & wondering what they has done in the US & to where they were returning. Manchester? Nearby? A connecting flight? Now, it was me coming home, noticing a couple’s Chicago guide, thinking, “No the Windy City—you’ll have certainly read that—isn’t remotely near my residence. Liverpool & London aside, I’ve been all over Europe, if you’re curious.” If I wasn’t so nervous over flying, if I’d an irritating, overfriendliness about me, I could’ve bored neighboring passengers for eight hours with romanticized travel adventures.
Nervous? I’m terrified of flying. “It’s nothing,” everyone (save a few) casually informs me, as if I’ve never before flown. “People do it every day.” I’m aware. I’m also aware people die every day, too. Somehow, crashing to (or grounded) my premature death never grows old. I know the statistics; I know more die daily in auto accidents. But flying? Shouldn’t only birds fly? A pilot taking so many lives in control so high above civilization? I make no sense; I’ve no fear of others driving. (Again, familiar vs. unfamiliar.) But phobias aren’t meant to add up: “Marked and persistent fear that is excessive or unreasonable, cued by the presence or anticipation of a specific object or situation [etc.]” (Quick Reference to the Diagnostic Criteria from DSM-IV-TR 213). Anxiety medications interact with Coumadin, so what do I do? Clutch my knees, try not to panic, rid my mind of Patsy Cline & “Ironic”, closely watch a pretty flight attendant (if she appears—oh, appears!—calm, it’s okay, right?) & this flight, a perfume ad depicting Kate Winslet, too.
Eight days ago, I was above the Atlantic Ocean, and now, I sit grounded at my desk, hundreds of photos still needing organized, printed & arranged in albums. When did the time between applying for my passport, reserving flights & trains & now go? When did complaining about football in Vienna become reading about its cultureless effects in the New York Times? I reread these entries & think fondly, longingly of my experience in Europe—a tour I was only planning a few months ago. “No one really excepts the futures, no one truly believes it can happen. All that is, is now” (Oates), And now, the future is past. Memories. Even those can never be entirely captured or recalled—
An evening in Liverpool spent locating Brian Epstein’s grave, the sun setting on our return to the bus stop. Children circling the block on their bicycles, cars parked on lawns, Allison’s first order of chips. A long wait for our bus, but no matter: we told stories of high school & marveled over the moon’s fullness—the same moon glowing around the world. A lucky pence. Missing our stop on a late-night London bus & retracing the route to our hostel. Subways! Our first glimpses of Houses of Parliament & Big Ben; approaching the Eiffel Tower—oh, Paris! Sporadic, random recollections (green grass, dusty paths, disguised beggars) will surface, some recorded, others eventually forgotten. And that’s life—
Regretfully, my entries of Europe are coming to an end. Upon deciding against teaching in Korea, a dear friend reminded me of my unique ability of seeing the world by way of art. It’s true, but not traveling. As laborious as living out of a suitcase is, as physically & mentally exhausting as constant movement is, countries, cultures, are more realized, more deserved. Earned. I can experience the world via art, but I cannot exist interactively in Erie, PA. A semi-frequent homesickness hindered my activities (often induced by situational stress), yet sorting photos, rifling through souvenirs & scraps, I want nothing but to return! Great to be home, of course (awkward, first stepping into the sunroom, my bedroom; everything felt short, as congested as the insides of my luggage), friends & family treating me to restaurants in exchange for my company & stories of Europe. I’ve eaten out so frequently this past week, it’s as if I’ve abandoned eating at home! And coincidentally, a used copy of Renée Fleming’s autobiography (waiting for me) at Salvation Army, rescued from the shelf with excited immediacy & pride. Considerations of Ireland next summer (finances permitting) to celebrate William’s graduation; further explorations of France & an introduction to Spain with Rae when I complete my graduate studies. (Wanderlust.) Again, I arrived at my question: will future ever materialize into present?
It was relieving, once again, to hear (in Paris) French, and finally, English. Not that I ever felt insecure or lost amidst German—I didn’t (at any rate, so many, especially younger generations, know English, too)—or even minded it, but how refreshing to hear the familiar sounds (hardly noticing British accents) of one’s native language. I could’ve been fluent in French and/or German (and would, one day, relish knowing French), and still, I’d fell relief, my brows relaxing—English. And then, Chicago, and not five minutes after Allison says, “Ah, American accents,” I overhear a woman working airport security: “It don’t make no difference.” “And there are America’s double negatives.” I’d so immersed myself in Europe’s culture, I forgot I was running from them. Interesting (in hindsight, expected), no fluency in French (un peu, un peu) and few German words (danke, bitte, schloss, Sprechen sie Englisch?) one notices, based on tone, appearance, dress & body language, if x native is speaking properly or poorly. Foreigner or not, first impressions are rarely misperceived, and language is everything (please, Plato, hush). And so, the issue of surrounding myself with other educated individuals living for (unable to live without) art.
Speaking to me it’s made obvious, and reinforced in these entries, the significance (essentialness) of history & history’s relationship to art. What weddings, coronations were held in x cathedral? What tragedies, wars occurred in the streets of x city? Whose attendance has graced grand theatres? Oh, if these buildings could talk! If art could share intimate secrets! Who sneered—“That’s not art!”—another crying over the exact piece. Legendary or not (thought I’m giddy over art’s celebrated figures), I devour history’s (nonpolitical) stories. Strange enough to remind myself Virginia Woolf sat, worked, in the very Bloomsbury Square I’m visiting, Beethoven walked the same cobblestones, saw the city wall (now graffiti-covered ruins) I’m now seeing, let alone the amazement of world-traveling family & friends: Aunt Pat at Westminster Abbey, Linda at Versailles, in Paris, Grand Dad & Grandma Madeline at Mozart’s Salzburg Geburtshaus, in Munich, Aunt Pat & Uncle Tom at Neuschwanstein, living in Germany. Never odd locally; we’ve all went to the same malls, libraries, theatres & beaches, but abroad? How selfish to think, upon my departure, a place ceases to exist! Again, familiar vs. unfamiliar (or foreign). I enjoyed (though my checkbook argues) sending postcards chronicling my travels, proving the continual growth & lasting endurance of cities. Just how many cards? 64. Sent, that is—73 for my album. 5 letters. On postage: £7.62, €59 (c. $100)! Money spent well.
I wonder, has Dad flown out of Heathrow? As I recall, only Gatwick, but either way, he’s never spent the night! Only GE-provided luxury hotels & first class airfare. What an experience that was, washing my face & brushing my teeth while nightshift janitors cleaned around me; writing; restless sleep with my travel pillow (“Slumber Jack”) softening our luggage, repeatedly started awake, only to discover ten minutes had passed. By 6:30, signs of life appeared, the only coffee I paid for in Europe was bought, and by 8:30, Allison & I had our boarding passes, checked our suitcases and were in line to be potentially raped by security, no questions asked—my scissors (in British accent: “Sorry, you can’t carry on your Harry Potter scissors.”), surviving college & now, five weeks (unused) in Europe, were confiscated & tossed. How did an endless night end? How many others (we certainly weren’t alone) have since undergone such ordeals to return home? A day—fourteen hours (three trains & London’s tube)—from Berlin to England’s capital, deciphering departure screens, payphone calls to Erie & using the airport’s restroom as if at home (utterly obvious, sitting on cold linoleum floors, that I was not.) I was out, seeing the world—current schedule: experiencing graveyard shifts of international airports. But this time, no eavesdropping on British passengers, catching casual glimpses (as if they appeared differently) & wondering what they has done in the US & to where they were returning. Manchester? Nearby? A connecting flight? Now, it was me coming home, noticing a couple’s Chicago guide, thinking, “No the Windy City—you’ll have certainly read that—isn’t remotely near my residence. Liverpool & London aside, I’ve been all over Europe, if you’re curious.” If I wasn’t so nervous over flying, if I’d an irritating, overfriendliness about me, I could’ve bored neighboring passengers for eight hours with romanticized travel adventures.
Nervous? I’m terrified of flying. “It’s nothing,” everyone (save a few) casually informs me, as if I’ve never before flown. “People do it every day.” I’m aware. I’m also aware people die every day, too. Somehow, crashing to (or grounded) my premature death never grows old. I know the statistics; I know more die daily in auto accidents. But flying? Shouldn’t only birds fly? A pilot taking so many lives in control so high above civilization? I make no sense; I’ve no fear of others driving. (Again, familiar vs. unfamiliar.) But phobias aren’t meant to add up: “Marked and persistent fear that is excessive or unreasonable, cued by the presence or anticipation of a specific object or situation [etc.]” (Quick Reference to the Diagnostic Criteria from DSM-IV-TR 213). Anxiety medications interact with Coumadin, so what do I do? Clutch my knees, try not to panic, rid my mind of Patsy Cline & “Ironic”, closely watch a pretty flight attendant (if she appears—oh, appears!—calm, it’s okay, right?) & this flight, a perfume ad depicting Kate Winslet, too.
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