I won’t check myself into Counseling and Psychological Services just yet, but I won’t be surprised if I need to come January. I, along with many other juniors studying abroad, should be prepared to go slightly insane upon returning to the University of Richmond. Don’t get me wrong — I love Richmond. I love America. I love Panera and Wal-Mart and Dunkin Donuts and baseball. But I don’t know that I am fully prepared for what so many juniors have gone through during the past: the reverse culture shock after studying abroad.

I do not aim to compare Europe to Richmond, because frankly, they can’t be compared. Neither can be said to be “better or worse” because they are just different. The people here are different, the lifestyles, the food, the clothes, everything. I am excited to go back to school and to see all my friends, to have an omelet at D-Hall and to go to a lodge again, but I also worry about the return. For those of you juniors riding camels in Cairo, meditating in Mumbai, drinking in Dublin and surfing in Sydney, are we REALLY ready to go back to cramming in the quiet section? When was the last time you pulled an all-nighter abroad that didn’t involve Red Bull Vodkas and Tiesto?

I’ve been able to “stalk” many of my friends via Facebook photos, and, honestly, their experiences seem incredible. Mostly, they are all vastly different. Two of my best friends are roommates at Richmond. One is studying in Dakar, Senegal, and the other in Paris. One is eating meat off an open fire with her cute little hands, fasting for Ramadan and sweating in the heat without air conditioning. The other is sipping coffee and eating croissants at cafés, attending fashion shows and sporting her cool black leather jacket. These two will move back into the same room in Richmond and look back at their past four months as completely opposite. Will the other understand? Will anyone?

My mom studied abroad in a small city in northern Spain about two hours west of my host city, San Sebastian. She told me that when she came back from abroad, she was more sophisticated. “Snobby, actually,” my dad said. She took the Spanish lifestyle back with her to Holy Cross. She ate Spanish, dressed Spanish and spoke Spanish most of the time. People in Worcester, Mass., had no clue what she went through culturally, and they never fully would.

As I said before, it is not that the Spanish lifestyle is better, but rather, it is just different. We, as abroad students, have had to adjust completely to a different life. I recently took a trip to Prague, Czech Republic. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. And thinking back now, it is hard to compare Prague’s 11th-century buildings to Richmond’s “historical” Monument Avenue.

I already made a list of things that I am excited to do, see and eat when I get back. Some are: seeing my family, speaking English at school, using American dollars, reading a newspaper in English and watching a TV show without having to find it streaming on some illegal Web site. And bagels, bagels and more bagels.

I am sure most of you upperclassmen will agree. I remember as a freshman girl coming back from winter break and being shocked. “Who were these people?” I thought. Suddenly, there was what seemed like 600 new faces to become accustomed to. That meant 300 new older girls to become intimidated by. Great. That’s right, freshmen. We are coming back. Don’t get too comfortable yet because you have a lot of new people to meet.

For us juniors, we will come back missing the seniors who had just graduated, and will be sad that in a few months more of our best friends will be gone. We will be agitated that our time abroad has ended and that we will have to sit through hours of recruitment meetings for sororities and fraternities. We will have to get adjusted to doing “real” work, researching for papers and waking up to go to class again. So if you, my fellow juniors, feel as if no one understands when coming back, look to the rest of us for help. There are other ways to get a dose of abroad. Befriend an international student at D-Hall. Eat a foreign meal once a week (not including margaritas and quesadillas at Mexico’s). Cheer for your team in the World Cup and keep up those language courses. And if that doesn’t work, screw senior fall midterms. We’re going back to Oktoberfest.

Ever wonder why Europeans think Americans are money-obsessed, snobby and uptight? Well, I think I have finally cracked the case. It’s because we are.  

“Calm down,” you are probably thinking. “Here goes another opinion article complaining about something.” But let me put something into perspective. Yes, the United States is the most powerful, most advanced and, some may argue, the most driven country in the world. But when broken down into smaller communities, like, say, Richmond, we are light-years away from Europe.   

My main concern regards what so many Richmond students worry about – exams, classes and grades – all because they lead to the dreaded real world, the afterlife, the underworld, the time in which we can no longer pour beers on a friend’s head and laugh about it. Oh no, after graduation, everything that we got away with in college gets soaked up into one huge fun sponge. Everyone, at least most students at Richmond, constantly worries about the next step.  

I once was studying in Boatwright at 6 a.m. after pulling an all-nighter. After two Red Bulls, two espressos and one large asiago cheese bagel from 8:15 at Boatwright, I started to freak out. Maybe it was the absurd amount of caffeine in my system. Maybe it was my regret of leaving the paper to the last minute or maybe it was the stress that I would fail the class. Failing would bring down my GPA, and I would graduate without a job in a rough economy, with no place to live. I would become homeless and have to beg for food on the streets, all because of this paper. That’s when I knew I had become crazy.  

My father is an accountant in Boston. He thinks, as his father did, that upon graduating from college, a person must find his or her own way, without the financial stability of his or her parents. In simpler words – I’m getting cut off. Completely. And if that means I will struggle for a while, then so be it. I will “learn,” right? 

The thought of this used to scare me terribly. I wondered how my life could ever be sufficient without a good, steady flow of money to keep me comfortable, especially if I graduated without a good enough GPA to secure me a good job with a steady paycheck. Then I came to Spain.  

My friends in Spain, as I stated during my last article, are from all parts of the world. They hail from New Zealand to the Netherlands, and from Mongolia to Munich. Though we grew up in different cultures, believe in different gods and wear very different clothing, we all seem to be very similar. We dance together at the discotecas, bask in the sun on the beaches and laugh at each other’s jokes. But what I have found to be a huge difference between the Americans and the students from the rest of the world involves one thing: pressure. We feel as though we are under constant pressure to do well, to be successful, to ace that exam and to graduate with honors because then we would have done it all. To European students, that is nothing. To them, traveling the world, being exposed to another culture, eating rare foods, meeting new people and gaining life experiences are things that strengthen a résumé much more than an internship will.  

I sat down for dinner with a good friend from Holland last night. As she made a typical Dutch meal, I began to ask her what college was like for her back home in Rotterdam. “Simple,” she said. “We go to high school, and if we are smart, we go to college. If we are dumb, we don’t. There is no stress on finances or anything, though, because we live at home and attend classes.” Oh, another thing, all of her classes are free. She seemed stunned when I told her that tuition for one year at my college was about 30,000 Euros. SAT scores, college essays, extracurricular activities, interviews and résumés do not matter there. Administrators at Rotterdam Business School could not care less about the fact that Juliette loved to travel or that she worked as a model in Amsterdam Fashion Week. They let her in because she did what she needed to do in high school to get by to get there.  

Another friend here in San Sebastian, who was born and raised in the Basque region of Spain, is 27 years old and lives with his father. Upon learning this, I immediately thought he had no job and no degree. He has both. “Our parents always support us until the age of 26 or 28,” he said. “I think with the American system, people mature faster than they should because there is no one to take care of them. Here there is no pressure. Here, it is laid-back.”

I had never thought about it before. Are we forced to be people we are not quite ready to become? Is our society so focused on success that we have overwhelmingly disregarded other aspects of life? After living here in Spain for two and a half months, I have learned to become just a little laid-back. I walk a bit slower. I sit down at cafés instead of asking for a to-go cup. I take deep breaths and long walks. But upon returning to Richmond, it will be back to my old ways, I am sure. I just hope I can challenge myself, and you, to live a life that’s a little more carefree.

Glasses? Check. Gloves? Check. Scalpel? Just kidding.

But instead, I need some bleach. Yes, that’s right. Because I’m going to attack the mold growing on the inside of my washing machine. And I’m going to win.

And win, I did. If you don’t believe me, you can ask the three witnesses who laughed as I scrubbed with all my energy and looked like a fool wearing sunglasses to protect my eyes.

This would never happen at Richmond. But I’m not at Richmond anymore. I’m studying in the beautiful (and sometimes damp) city of Edinburgh, Scotland, and for the first time, I’m truly on my own.

It’s about more than the administration telling you it will take more than a week to clean your washer and you deciding to take matters into your own hands.

Richmond has always been a second kind of home. I’m not just talking about your friends, but every single person who is a part of the community.

I’m talking about the lovely housekeeper who helped me regain consciousness when I blacked out while walking down the stairs in my dorm last year. I’m talking about the professors who know me by name and meet with me several times a week so I can pass a class. I’m talking about the campus employees who came to D-Hall during the winter storm last year so we could all have a home-cooked meal.

Here, I am a number in a crowd of students. My professors don’t even have office hours. They leave that to their teaching assistants. And food? I’ve been trying to cook every day, but that hasn’t gone over so well.

Don’t get me wrong. All of the students who are studying abroad are traveling to amazing places and seeing some of the greatest sights in the world.

Nevertheless, at the same time, we are gaining a new perspective – one of reality. This is the type of reality I don’t really think exists at Richmond (and that may be why I love it so much). At Richmond, we’re able to fall into a cozy feeling of comfort and forget just how lucky we are.

I will never appreciate all the little things as much as I do now. Like a washing machine that doesn’t take two hours and 40 minutes to wash your towels. Or having a dryer in your building. Or having plugs that don’t have an on switch. Or having faucets that actually mix the cold and hot water to form a great in-between temperature. Or having a stove that actually has degrees on it. Or going into the grocery store and recognizing brand names. Or eating food that I didn’t cook for myself.

For all these things, I am grateful. And for all of the people at Richmond who make me feel lucky, I have one thing to say: Thank you.

Greetings from Ireland, the Emerald Isle! I realize I should have probably written something about Ireland first, instead of Germany, but in the spirit of October (and what better way to celebrate this glorious month than a beer-and-pretzel-laden festival in a German city), I would like to recount an amazing weekend abroad: Oktoberfest 2009.

I, like many other fellow Spiders, somehow managed to get to Munich, Germany, by way of bus, train, plane, taxi, walking, hitching a ride on the Hofbräu horse wagon … you get the picture. Traveling in Europe requires much more than your average trip in the States: renting/driving cars is not easy, nor does the Office of International Education recommend it (in fact, they HIGHLY discourage it).

Yet despite some friends’ glitches in travel arrangements (i.e. missed flights, wrong metro lines, thinking that Munich and München are different places [they are not], sketchy lodging arrangements, foreign languages), it seemed as if the “Richmond bubble” had been transplanted to this random German city for a 72-hour period at the end of September.

Why at the end of September instead of October? Well, Oktoberfest is a 16-day festival from the end of September to mid-October, supplying millions of visitors with plenty of beer, pretzels and memories that will last a lifetime (thank you, Canon Powershot).

Although I do not think any form of journalism can accurately describe the euphoric and chaotic experience of Oktoberfest (and especially my series of events), I do think a survival guide of sorts is a necessity before adventuring into the beer-goggled, German unknown lands of Munich. Thus, I think a “Top 10” is in order, because lists are easier to bring along than a bulky guidebook. Here are my top 10 tips to survive Oktoberfest:

10. Make friends with internationals you meet.
You’ve arrived in another foreign and strange land, after coming from a less foreign and strange land (presuming you have been in your study abroad country for a few weeks at this point). There are hundreds of thousands of people everywhere, and you are just trying to find your friends and hotel. Once you find said hotel, you anxiously wait for your friends, who are mistakenly at the exact same hotel, but on the other side of the city.

While outside waiting for your friends to show up, you meet some friendly South African men who insist that you come party with them. Sadly you decline, yet they buy you a beer anyway. Success! This was just one incident in which it definitely paid off to be friendly at Oktoberfest. Once in the tents, we made friends with the United Nations: Brazilians, Australians, Koreans, and, of course, Germans. Oktoberfest is one of the largest cultural events in the world and beer tents beckon party-goers the world over. I recommend befriending some strangers (with caution), and they could be your new drinking buddies.

9. Eat. A lot. Especially pretzels.
Germany may not be known for its exquisite cuisine like some other countries, such as France and Italy, where many Richmond students are studying abroad, but they sure know what the best drunk snacks are: big, giant, salty pretzels. Where else are you going to get the chance to eat soooo many pretzels in one sitting? And they are delicious and authentic. But what is the pretzel’s best redeeming quality, you may ask? Answer: They soak up that rich beer that has been sloshing around in your empty stomach for hours.

In addition to nomming on pretzels throughout the day, make sure to eat a substantial breakfast before rushing to the festival grounds to get in line at Hofbräu-Festzelt at 7 a.m. (no lie, if you want to get into the tents, especially Hofbräu because that is known as the crazy American tent, you need to get there EARLY). You’ll be glad you had something to eat before that first stein of beer promptly served at 9 a.m.

8. Don’t be afraid to throw some ’bows.
As I said in Tip No. 9, if you want to get into the tents at the start of the day, standing your ground is essential. My friends and I were in line at Hofbräu-Festzelt by 7:30 a.m. and we were close to the front of the line. Score! But we had to fight to keep our spots in line, because large, pushy, unfriendly and smoky foreign men surrounded us. There were a few instances where we had to throw some elbows to keep our space in line, and many times I had the notion that a cheerleader was inside my head cheering: “Be aggressive. B-E aggressive. B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E!” As long as you are willing to stake your claim and run to the nearest table once inside of the tent of your choosing, then chances are you will not have to throw any ’bows.

7. Learn the metro system.
Unlike Ireland, many other countries have extensive underground metro systems that are excellent for getting around large cities. Luckily, I was with friends who had mastered navigating the metro system, which was key to get from our hotel to the festival grounds. Knowing the metro also helped when I had to get to the main station to catch a train to the airport post-Oktoberfest. If you can master the German metro system, then I think you can probably figure out any foreign country’s metro system.

6. Bring a big bag.
This really only applies to girls (though guys, I think y’all may want to make a deal with your girl friends at Oktoberfest). Although it is a federal offense and a 50 Euro fine if caught stealing a stein from the tents, almost everyone does it. It was Longchamp-tote-bag city at Oktoberfest, with everyone’s intention of taking that first stein glass from the inaugural beer of the day.

If you find that you cannot possibly take a stein (either for moral reasons or you do not have a big bag), you can purchase souvenir steins for around 11 Euro. I mean, you have already spent a fortune just getting to Oktoberfest, let alone the fact that the beers cost anywhere between 8 and 10 Euro, so go ahead and take that souvenir stein. Just make sure Lars and Hans the security guards do not see you take it, otherwise they will be very unhappy and will kindly escort you out of the tent. Party foul.

5. Top up your mobile.
In Ireland and many other European countries, just about everyone has a “pay as you go” phone or mobile, as they say. So before venturing into a different mobile coverage zone, make sure you have “topped up,” or put money on, your account. Texting and calling charges skyrocket when you are contacting friends with different phone companies, especially when you are in a different country. To make sure you know where your friends are and to avoid confusion, make sure before you board that train, plane or bus to Germany that your mobile has plenty of credit on it, because you will feel as if you have been transplanted back at Richmond, constantly texting people about where they are at the Fest.

4. Stay with the group.
Not only is it crucial to have plenty of credit on your phone, it is even more essential to stay with the group. At all times. There are literally thousands of people in any given tent, especially Hofbräu, where there are crazy Americans, Italians, Brazilians, Australians and many other party-hardy nationalities.

I somehow lost my group of friends toward the end of our day (around 2 p.m.) on my way back from the bathroom, and ended up wandering around the festival grounds and downtown Munich for two hours. Not exactly the best two hours of my life for my friends, who so graciously tried to find me by going to the security guards Lars and Hans, the police and even the hospital. But I made it back to the hotel in one piece, yet sadly without my mobile. When in doubt, go everywhere with a buddy. That way, if you happen to get lost or lose your mobile, at least you will be with another person who speaks English.

3. Pace yourself.
Oktoberfest is comparable to Pig Roast on steroids. Like Mark McGwire steroids during his infamous single-season home-run campaign. That being said, it is extremely important and advisable to pace yourself: This is the biggest marathon of your life, so do not sprint, even when your new German friends are urging you to chug that stein.

The steins hold a liter of beer equivalent to about three cans of Natty Light. The first steins come out at 9 a.m. and continue all day. Therefore, if you want to have an enjoyable Oktoberfest and not one in which you could be THAT American vomiting in the streets (of which we saw many), pace yourself, enjoy the beer and relish in the fact that everyone back at school is potentially chugging Natty or Beast while you are drinking Oktoberfest beer. Legit.

2. Make sure your batteries are charged (phone and camera).
This one is a no-brainer, though many people often forget to bring their voltage converters. If you do not want to miss a Kodak moment, make sure that camera is charged because you will take TONS of pictures and videos. And you will be glad you took all 187 pictures and 13 videos, because chances are you will not remember that you took pictures with the beer maid, the security guard, the pretzel man and the band. The memories may be a bit hazy, but those pictures are crystal clear images of what you did that day in Munich.

1. HAVE FUN!
Chances are, you are only going to be abroad once and only going to get to experience Oktoberfest once in your lifetime. Steal a stein. Dance on tables. Sing along to the German songs. Take hundreds of pictures. Get postcards, T-shirts, crazy German hats, etc. Take advantage of all it has to offer: Eat, drink and be merry. Auf Wiedersehen, Oktoberfest, most epic lodge of all time.

We walk a few yards away from the café and begin to hear the screams. It is a woman’s voice, shrill and Italian. We get closer and see that she is crouched on the ground beside a park bench shrieking: “GIULIO! AMORE! AMORE!” over and over again.

People are beginning to gather closely around her, staring at the figure under the bench whom she is shaking. We begin to cross the street toward them, and it becomes clear that her arms are covered in blood, and there is a man on the ground convulsing uncontrollably.

Death comes in threes. I am stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk by the horror of it and pray that I don’t fall over into the street. I have become one of the worthless onlookers who are too dumbfounded to do anything. All I can do is mouth, “No,” over and over again, as if that would stop this man from dying under the park bench right in front of our eyes.

Suddenly, I realize that the person by the man’s side is Olivia, who’s taken charge and is holding him on his side as he continues to jerk about. She later explained that because she had Red Cross training, she literally could not just walk by or gape at him. She knew she had to do something. She identified the convulsing as a seizure and knew that if he were on his back, he could choke on his vomit or his own tongue.

Suddenly, the man becomes still. She checks for his pulse, and it’s not there. He’s just died in my arms, she thinks.
“VIVE!” she screams at him, trying to think of the Italian word for “live.”

I am not there because I have somehow gathered my wits about me enough to sprint back to the café and tell the English-speaking man that someone is dying outside, and he needs to call an ambulance.

Meanwhile, Olivia is holding the man and telling him to live although she thinks he’s dead. Someone has confirmed for her that he is overdosing on some bad heroin.

All of a sudden the supposedly dead man opens his eyes wide, and she sees that they are a brilliant blue color. He throws up everywhere and then leaps to his feet and lunges for the woman who is covered in blood, perhaps from him or perhaps from the large open wound that has become apparent on the inside of her arm.

Just moments before, she was screaming “AMORE!” which means “love,” in his ear, and now he is blindly attacking her with a rage that Olivia could only describe as inhuman.

She flees the scene because she thinks there is nothing more she can do. The man is so doped up that he cannot see and he cannot stand. He is falling repeatedly onto the pavement and grass as he desperately tries to hurt the woman who presumably gave him the bad heroin.

I run to Olivia’s side, and we walk back to the café as she explains the situation. “If I hadn’t had him on his side through the seizures, he would have died,” she says.

She wants to wash her hands in case any unseen trace of blood or disease has gotten on them. In the bathroom she tells me she almost started crying and I can’t bring myself to say, “Me too,” judging by how much more she has just gone through.

I can’t say anything because I’m completely blown away by her tremendous courage and the immediacy of her reaction. They don’t teach you that in lifeguard school.

We exit the bathroom and approach the English-speaking man at the bar.

“Jack Daniels,” Olivia says.

The man pours her an enormous shot of Jack. Three cheers for the European drinking age.

“Can I get you something a little harder, low-fat milk maybe?” Mr. Bartender says.

The funny thing about making jokes in a second language is that you have to do them in a deadpan voice because you never know how the other culture tells jokes.

We decide to leave for the train station again and he says, “I told you there are jumps along the way.” Another joke as the disaster continues outside.

We try to be in higher spirits as we leave the café for the last time, but have to walk past the terrible scene in the park. The man is on the ground again, lying on his back.

“I have to go over there,” Olivia says. “He’s going to die like that.”

I plead with her not to go as she begins to cross the street, knowing if she goes near him, he could very well attack her, too. At that moment we hear the sirens, and she decides there’s no point in going back.

“All I kept thinking was how you said people die in threes,” I say.

“Jesus,” she breathes. She hadn’t even had time to stop and think of that.

At the station, we have 45 minutes before our train leaves, so we slouch against a wall on the floor. “It was meant to be,” she says.

I tell her she just saved someone’s life, and it hits her. She thinks for a while and says: “You know how everyone wants to figure out their reason for being here, the one thing that happens that means they have made a contribution to the world? Maybe that was my moment.”

This statement gives me the chills, and I tell her she’s right. We remember wondering together about whether the sad soul who had written the graffiti had died on that bench, and realize that the man we saw nearly died under a bench in the very same park that day. If not for us missing the bus, being in the park, stopping for a late lunch and her Red Cross training that made her decide not to just keep walking, he would have continued to seize on his back and would have died. It truly was meant to be.

“The strangest thing,” she says, “is that he had a rosary around his neck.”

I get goose bumps again. The image of the dying druggie with a rosary around his neck is ironic but enough to confirm my growing suspicion that rosaries do offer some sort of spiritual protection. Perhaps, at least today, people don’t die in threes.

It was the day before I left for my journey to Europe. All summer, I had been mentally preparing myself. I was going to live in a small Spanish city for four months, attend a university in which no one spoke English and try to do it successfully.

After finally accepting that I would be going without Chick-fil-A for an entire semester (something I had never done before … deep breaths, Julia), I became excited to try new foods and discover a different hangover cure (which had been the No. 1 on the value menu for two years). I packed my leather jacket and boots and left behind my jean jacket and Red Sox hat. I was determined to fit in and I would dress, speak and act the part. I did not want to be what the Univeristy of Richmond prepared us not to be: an Ugly American.

I thought back to my long progression to reaching that point. All in all, the Richmond study abroad application process was great. They helped us with anything and all that we needed, and organized it well. But what I quickly learned once I got to Spain was that no pamphlet or info session could prepare a 20-year-old girl to live in a country very different from her own.

I immediately missed Wal-Mart and Sheetz. What slightly frightened me was that the speakers at the study abroad orientation last April prepared us by explaining everything we shouldn’t do. “Don’t wear your Greek letter shirts on Fridays,” “DON’T travel alone,” and my personal favorite, “Don’t bring home any souvenirs that you can’t give back.” I wasn’t exactly planning on getting pregnant, Richmond, but thanks for the heads up.

Mostly people have welcomed Americans here with open arms, yet there are times when we get blank stares because we’ve used the wrong Spanish vocabulary. My first night here I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some fruit. I hadn’t eaten anything healthy in two days because the chicken on the plane was a mix of dark meat and yellow flesh, and the airport vending machines only had an array of Cheeto-like-snacks and Kinder bars (delicious by the way).

What I didn’t realize after putting the oranges down at the register was that I had to weigh them first at the fruit weigh station. I wanted to tell the clerk that I was embarrassed. “Estoy embarazada,” I said. She gave me a disgusted look, laughed and whispered “Ayy, Americana.” How rude! I took my bags, left the oranges and walked home feeling defeated. I quickly whipped out my Spanish-English dictionary and lo and behold, I had told the woman I was pregnant. That brought me right back to that orientation.

My first few days in San Sebastian were a bit overwhelming, slightly embarrassing and all in all incredible. I studied the Spanish girls walking the streets, wearing thick scarves and cool leather boots in 75-degree weather. “I can do that!” I thought. Oh, but the profuse sweating when meeting new people made things slightly awkward. So, I went back to wearing tank tops and stored the scarves for the winter months.

The next life lesson in Spain was the process of meeting new people. The Spanish university here separates the international students into intensive Spanish classes to prepare them for the “real” Spanish classes with the “real Spanish students” that would begin two weeks later. Because I was going to take my journalism and communications classes in Spanish, this was great for me. It was also good to get to know the other international students. They hailed from all over Europe: Italy, Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Holland and Belgium. What they all had in common was that they spoke at least three languages, listened to crazy Euro Techno music and were rail-thin.

But what I liked most about these new friends was they all had a good sense of who they were, and a deep appreciation for their cultures. Juliette is a 6-foot tall Dutch model who rocks Birkenstocks daily and smokes two packs a day. Blair is a crazy Scotsman who has more pride in his country than anyone I’ve ever met. He wears a green plaid Scottish kilt that resembles my Catholic high school uniform and likes to think he sounds like Gerard Butler to the American girls. If we close our eyes hard enough, he does. Then there’s Paolo, the passionate Italian. He epitomizes just about every stereotype of Italian men that exists. He walks by yelling “Ciao Bellas!” to the girls while wearing soccer jerseys, jean capri pants and a man-bag, and we love him for it.

Though it was fun learning how to say swears in eight different languages, the other students, along with the Spaniards, loved to hear what we Americans had to say as well. Every time my roommate, Hannah Benabdallah, introduced herself to a new person, his or her automatic reaction would be: “Hannah Montana! ¿Como estás?”

Julianne Mulhall, another roommate, constantly has to explain why her English is slightly different than the others’. “I’m from Laawwng Island, New Yowahk,” she says. But first prize for hardest name pronunciation goes to Blaike Ford, a fellow Spider here. A typical Spanish conversation between Blaike and a Spaniard is:

– “Hola, soy Blaike.”
– “Playte?”
– “No, Blaike, con una ‘B.’”
– “Ohhhhh Blayte.”

After the 10th time, she gave up and usually just goes by “Rubia” (blond girl).

We Americans slowly became more comfortable with the other “internationals” and finally gave in to our American ways. We showed them the best Lil Wayne songs to download and explained to them that not everyone has a “Super Sweet 16” like on MTV. When I told a girl from Holland that my 16th birthday consisted of pasta and movies with my friends and family, she seemed shocked. “You didn’t get a Hummer for your birthday like they do on TV?” In her defense, though, the only impression I had of Holland was Austin Powers as “Goldmember.” Pathetic, I know.

Just as we appreciated them for their cultures, and for their personalities, we too felt as if we could do the same. Yes, they joked about us being “typical Americans,” but it was all in good fun. Juliette rocked her Birkenstocks, so I shouldn’t have been too ashamed to wear my Frye boots in a foreign country. It was all about balancing how to learn the new ways of the Spanish culture while still being true to my own.

So yes, being an Ugly American is often an ugly thing. For instance, if you travel abroad not knowing the political situation of the country that you plan to visit, then you deserve to be made fun of. Don’t walk around Paris with a Bush-Cheney ’04 T-shirt because it’s not the best idea. But the important thing to remember is that we are studying abroad to learn the culture. We are not on vacation. We LIVE here, for an entire semester. So don’t be too afraid of the stigma. If you show interest in other people’s cultures, then they will often reciprocate.

As long as you don’t walk around a crowded European street with a polo shirt, khakis, boat shoes and Ray Bans with croakies (no offense KAs) while fist pumping to a Bruce Springsteen song on your iPod, you’ll be fine. Relax, go with the flow and try to learn the culture without losing your sense of self. Because being a poser is often worse than being an Ugly American.

During my second week of studying abroad at Goldsmiths, in London, I’ve already come across some big differences between being here and being at Richmond:

Cooking for myself. With no D-Hall and no Pier to rely on, it’s been a lot of cereal, PB and J and heating things up in the microwave. Luckily, when that gets boring, there’s a ton of kebab places right near our flat. I hope to get more creative with cooking as the semester goes on!

The walking. Obviously we walk all over campus at Richmond, but to get anywhere else we need a car! I’ve found that I love walking right off campus into an urban area – and for going into central London, we use the Underground.

The classes. It’s the first week of classes, and the big lecture style classes are so different. But they’re paired with smaller seminars, so that is something more familiar. They also meet only once a week! Perfect for getting to experience all of London and traveling.

The bathroom. Pro: I have my own. Con: It’s the European kind. Just a drain in the floor with a shower curtain wrapped around it. Never did I think I’d rather be in North Court’s clogged shower again.

But I guess small prices have to be paid for being only a few Underground stops away from Buckingham Palace.

The Study Abroad Office at the University of Richmond does a fine job of equipping students with the necessary materials and attitudes that will assist them in maximizing their welfares and potentials overseas. I personally have experienced minimal culture shock overall.

That being said, I suppose there is no way to fully prepare anyone for China. I mean, a) Who goes to China? b) Who’s been to China? and c) How does one ever really fully prepare oneself for this kind of endeavor?

One cannot, and therefore my advice is somewhat general. But any English-speaker considering going to China for abroad should take these words to HEART and beyond.

IF YOU ARE GOING TO CHINA:

1. Buy toilet paper. Bring it around with you. This is the BYOTP concept, and it greatly reduces the relevance of tip No. 2.

2. Look up the Chinese word for “yeast infection.” You don’t want to be playing that game of charades with the pharmacist. You just don’t.

3. Do not instigate the “five-second rule.” There are no diapers in Shanghai, just open holes in baby outfits. Five seconds of feces is still hepatitis. Case closed.

4. Learn how to say “bathroom.” This includes both word and tone. Learn it before emergency time. Be able to say it during emergency time. There’s no way around this. After conducting some experiments, I have discovered that peeing your pants is universally frowned upon – a cross-cultural phenomenon!

5. Do not leave your drink unattended and then go back and drink it, unless you were wondering what your organs looked like against the backdrop of the same street mentioned in tip No. 3.

6. Do not drink the water, unless of course for some reason you are experiencing a medical emergency requiring an enema.

7. Do not order “pork” or “beef” from street vendors. The cats in the cage next to the stove resemble neither pigs nor bulls, and this is because they are not. If it don’t taste like beef … IT AIN’T BEEF!

8. If a blinged-out Chinese man approaches you in a club, walk away. He thinks you’re a prostitute.

9. If a blinged-out Chinese woman approaches you in a club, walk away. She thinks you should become one.

10. The death penalty: my anti-drug!

It’s a beautiful morning in the piazza, and the bus driver’s son is dead. He died in a car accident the night before, and the bus driver just found out. As a student in the UGA Studies Abroad program in Italy, I have been living out of suitcases for a week in various Italian cities, and the driver’s job today is to take us all to Cortona, our new home. Everyone is solemn as we wait in the park with our hundreds of suitcases, which he will soon help us load onto the bus. Does one go to work on the day one’s child dies? In this case, apparently so.

“It’s scary how many car accidents have occurred in the past two weeks,” said Olivia, one of the two girls I will be sharing a room with for the next three months. “My father knew a child who died this week in a four-wheeler accident. Death usually comes in threes, you know.”

I shudder, hoping the phrase won’t be proved right during the next few days. I’m big on coincidences and superstitions, so naturally I start to get a very bad feeling.

Once we load our bags onto the bus, which we hear won’t be taking us home until 2:30 p.m., everyone leaves the park for one last day of shopping and exploring in Florence. There is an optional museum trip later in the day, but Olivia and I are feeling sluggish so we decide to opt out and go have cappuccinos and waste time in the park where we dropped off our bags at the bus. We assume that the group will reconvene there because the bus had met us there all the other times.

After cappuccinos, we search the park for a bench in the shade. The piazza is quite large and has several benches, but only one is free. We notice right away that someone has written a message on it in what looks like whiteout. It reads: “I live in this f**king world / With f**king problems / I hate myself / I want to die.” We hesitate for a minute, wondering what to make of such a tragic statement.

“I just hope that no one died because of this, and that whoever wrote it was just in love,” Olivia says. In response, I wonder aloud whether someone might have even died on that very bench and used the text as an artistic suicide note. I admit that it is a morbid thing to say, but on a day that began on such a sad note, it wasn’t hard for either of us to believe. We decide to sit on the bench anyway.

We pass the time by peoplewatching and telling stories. Somehow we begin telling ghost stories and the conversation turns to childhood fears and experiences. When Olivia was very young, she thought she saw something moving around her room and she decided to begin wearing a rosary to bed. She explains that she’s not very religious, but there’s something comforting about having one. As a child she thought that whatever was bad couldn’t get her if she had a rosary with her.

That got me thinking. I’m not religious either, but my grandmother gives me small crosses and rosaries all the time so that I will be protected. My mother always has one in her car. I usually don’t pay it any mind, but I have become fascinated by the number of people I have met on this trip who all think it’s important to have one.

In Vatican City in Rome, all my friends kept wanting to stop to buy rosaries, and all I wanted to do was get out of there and sleep off my jetlag sickness. (I spent my first day in Rome throwing up off of the most beautiful bridge into the picturesque canal — definitely ruined a couple of honeymoons.) Now I wish I had taken the time to pull myself together and buy one. Bear with me, the rosary bit will be important later.

All the ghost stories are starting to make us jittery and it is nearing 2:30 so we decide to go lie in the sun at the spot where the bus will meet everyone to go to Cortona. We lounge in the grass peacefully until 2:45 rolls around, and still no one is there. The thought occurs to us that we are in the wrong place. The program I’m in basically has an abandonment policy, which means that if you are not there when the bus leaves, you will be left behind.

We laugh it off and decide that they said 3:30 instead. Olivia says she kind of even hopes we have been left behind so we can go on an adventure finding our way to Cortona on our own. I agree with her. Neither of us is too fazed by the thought of it.

At 3:35 we know something is wrong. I have one of the professor’s numbers from one of the handouts so we give him a call.

“I was hoping I’d hear from you guys,” he says. “We waited for 40 minutes. I’m sorry …” Oops. I still don’t know where they met but it wasn’t the park. He explains to us which train we should get on and which stop to get off. “You’ll have an adventure!”

We decide to take our sweet time and go to the café across the street to get some sandwiches. We laugh as we walk in and find that “Bohemian Rhapsody” is blasting throughout the restaurant. Everyone has been singing it for days because the frequent mention of the names “Galileo” and “Figaro.” A coincidence! Little do we know the series of coincidences that will ensue after we finish our matching tuna sandwiches.

The man behind the bar magically speaks excellent English so we have him give us directions to the train station, which happens to be right down the street to the left.

“You have to make jumps along the way!” he says.

What? I decide that it’s just a joke that got lost in translation somewhere. Whatever the case, had we not been walking down that street along the side of the park at the exact time that we were, I would not be sitting here right now still shaking and writing this story.

(To be continued next week … )

CUSCO, Peru — As President Alan Garcia’s approval rating continues to plummet, various bloody protests have amplified chaos and killings throughout Peru, notably in the northern Amazon region.

Violent uprisings in the north of the country have disrupted transportation, education and tourism, generating international attention as Garcia pursues investment and development projects at the expense of the general public. Along with numerous riots and strikes reeling Cusco, more than 30 police and Indians were killed in the northern jungle in response to the Garcia administration’s exploitation of the rain forest’s natural resources.

I, along with four members from our group of 11, took an independent trip to the southern Peruvian rain forest for three days. After returning from a weekend of canoeing, mosquito nets and remarkable wildlife, we were reunited with the rest of the team in Cusco.

While the five of us were trekking through the humid jungle, watching monkeys and macaws meander above our heads, the seven other group members were in Cusco, reading about violent killings occurring in the Amazon. Fortunately, the closest we came to death was when our sweat — and insect repellant-drenched bodies — came dangerously close to an irritable jaguar that growled as we frantically struggled to escape through the thick, unforgiving forest. Safe in the southern jungle, we were unaware that residents in the northern Amazon were demanding the government dismantle plans to use the rain forest as an investment for future development projects. As a result, several people were speared to death.

These natives have exceptionally limited services, receiving little — if any — education, health care and basic infrastructure, among other essentials. Garcia seeks to capitalize on the region’s copious natural resources, including water, oil, minerals and natural gas, regardless of the adverse effects such pursuits have on the residents. The natives have a strained relationship with the Peruvian government because they won’t receive any benefits from international corporations exploiting such resources. Because these citizens are not granted any political authority or rights, they resort to violence and protests, actions that result in deaths and block transportation and tourism.

Along with violence in the rain forest, riots continue to surface in other regions, including Lima, the capital, and Cusco, the country’s Incan city renowned for its proximity to Machu Picchu — a popular tourist destination. Protesters in Cusco continue to block roads, disrupting all forms of transportation. Peak tourist season in Cusco is from June to September. The strikes appear to be coordinated to affect this highly lucrative business, further discrediting the stability of the government and Peru’s international status. Residents of Cusco are angered by Garcia’s mining and hydroelectric projects, including the privatization of their water sources. In response to the government’s ambitions, residents act out in the only way they can — through primarily non-violent attempts to block roadways.

Professor Rick Mayes — a University of Richmond associate professor of public policy who led our group — was personally involved in an uprising while riding in a taxi. A mob of residents unexpectedly blocked the road, surrounded the taxi and rolled large rocks between the wheels to prevent them from escaping. The angry residents then smashed the windshield of the vehicle and began pounding on the sides and hood of the taxi.

“I haven’t had many of these in my life, but I began experiencing a rush of adrenaline and a ‘fight or flight’ feeling surged through my body,” Mayes said. “I was really scared that the people might completely flip out and attack the driver and/or me.”

Not soon after the residents began to attack the taxi, a group of soldiers came to assuage the anger before anyone was injured. Professor Mayes walked home.

Peru has recently engendered international concern as Garcia’s pro-investment policies and manipulation of highly coveted natural resources have led to increased violence and instability. Labor unions, such as the General Confederation of Peruvian Workers (CGTP), continue to respond to the administration’s injustices in order to protect citizens’ rights.

As I boarded the plane to JFK, I thought of the group scattered on their flights, returning to separate lives in cities throughout the United States. Although we were arriving in different towns with different lives, we had one thing in common: we witnessed a faltering country consumed with struggle. The palpable corruption, public health issues and conflict in Peru will always remind us that we live in a world where opportunity is a luxury, not to be overlooked.

Contact reporter Fred Shaia at fred.shaia@richmond.edu

SEOUL, South Korea — I’ve finally reached my limit for listening to people harp on the notion of a deep East-West cultural split.

“The United States is being torn apart from within by individualism and legalism. Asians, unlike Americans, do not feel the need to resort to litigation for all their problems. They find other, more harmonious ways to settle disputes.”

Obviously, you can tell I’m not a fan. I’m not even sure how much truth there is to such claims. I recently came upon what I consider a perfect example: adultery law. In Korea and Taiwan, adultery is prohibited by criminal law and a penalty that can be up to two years in prison. Although a criminal matter, it is not the State, but the spurned spouse who must bring the charge against the adulterer and the interloper. That is to say, the system encourages spouses to co-opt the law as a form of revenge to deal
with an intimate family problem.

In the U.S., by and large, adultery laws has been almost completely repealed or simply lapsed. While I am aware of certain exceptions, including a gentleman who was fined $250 in our own Commonwealth, it is fair to say adultery law is mostly a thing of the past.

Despite our reputation as the most litigious place on earth, we have decided that this is an area where social mores, rather than law, should regulate behavior. The Korean supporters of the adultery law (who are becoming fewer and fewer over time) claim that, if adultery laws ceased to exist, marriage would cease to have any meaning and infidelity would become rampant. As of
January 2009 and October 2008 respectively, 25 percent of American men and 68 percent of Korean men cheat on their wives (rates for women, interestingly, are similar in both countries: 15 percent). Is it too presumptuous of me to say then, that this
claim is a difficult one to justify?

— TB

Anthony Bessette is studying abroad at Yonsei University for the spring 2009 semester.

VYBORG, Russia — The Smolny-Bard group went on a trip to this nearby city in late March. It’s a small town two hours northwest of St. Petersburg by bus on the Gulf of Finland.

Eunice Kim for The Collegian

A typical home from the 13th century

Eunice Kim for The Collegian

Typical Vyborg

As we rode along the streets, our gray-haired Russian tour guide told us the highlights of the city, proudly boasting about its sea ports, that it was once a home of Lenin and that they had hosted the annual Russian film festival. He gave us a thorough, detailed account of every landmark, and with every street we turned, he accounted a story about each one. Our heads kept up with the constantly alternating requests to look “cprava” and “cleva” (right and left). Even when we stopped for lunch at a cafe, our guide knew the history of the restaurant, mentioning that the 13th century building used to be a basement cellar.

Eunice Kim for The Collegian

Ulitsa Vodnoy Zastavy-Watergate Street

Eunice Kim for The Collegian

Balcony from 1799

The word “Vyborg” is actually a Finnish word meaning “holy port.” The city was once an important trading and industrial center, and it become geographically important after the building of the current country’s capital, St. Petersburg.

Eunice Kim for The Collegian

Statue of Torkel Knutsson in front of the City Museum

Thus, the founder and Tsar Peter the Great conquered the city in the beginning of the 18th century. However, imprints of the Finnish culture remain firmly ingrained into the streets, people and architecture of Vyborg (the city was recaptured in 1941 before Russian gained it back in 1944).

One drawback to these excursions is that all of the tours are always entirely in Russian. Even with a solid two and half years studying the language, my ears always tire out midway through the three-hour stream of Russian history that rushes out of the guide’s mouth. So that’s why my explanations are rather simple and minimal.

Eunice Kim is a junior undergraduate studying abroad in St. Petersburg, Russia, during the spring 2009 semester.

Courtesy of Anthony Bessette

Constitutional Court of the Republic of Korea

SEOUL, South Korea — The U.S. and Korea have been in negotiations over a free trade agreement (FTA) for some time now.  Up to now, Korea hasn’t imported U.S. beef, and an FTA would require that to change. For one controversial reason or another, this has sparked a fear among many Koreans that importing U.S. beef means risking the importation of Mad Cow Disease. Late last year, a number of anti-FTA protests took to the streets of Seoul, and one of them became violent after dark.

A few months ago, the Korean National Assembly passed a law restricting nighttime protests. Under the law, groups would need to get permits to hold nighttime protests; daytime ones remain unrestricted. The Korean constitution ensures that “All citizens shall enjoy freedom of speech and the press, and freedom of assembly and association,” and that “licensing of assembly … shall not be recognized.”  

The law has been brought before the Constitutional Court for review, arguments have been heard, and the court’s decision will be announced within a month or two. Interesting from an American perspective, the court held a public hearing to get the public’s opinion on the law and its relationship to the constitution.

As Americans, we’re taught that our laws protect freedoms of speech and assembly to a greater extent than anywhere else in the world.  I find it quite interesting then, that the Korean Constitution Court is considering striking down a law that I believe would pass constitutional muster in the U.S. The U.S. Supreme Court allows restrictions on the right of assembly under the doctrines of “clear and present danger” (Dennis v. United States), or in ways that are “content-neutral”(see, e.g., Hill v. Colorado), for example.

The law passed by Korea’s National Assembly is content-neutral and is backed by the force of recent history. That is to say, to my knowledge the great majority of night protests over the past two decades have turned violent or at least damaging to private property.  Based on the Korean constitution’s language that “licensing of assembly … shall not be recognized,” the Constitutional Court may have to protect freedom of assembly to a greater extent than the U.S. Or, maybe it will point to one of the other articles of the Korean constitution (Art. 21 (4) comes to mind) as a reason not to.

Anthony Bessette is studying abroad at Yonsei University for the spring 2009 semester.

Courtesy Anthony Bessette

Double Donuts

SEOUL, South Korea — When most people think of Asian countries where intellectual property rights are readily flouted, I imagine they usually think of places like Vietnam, Thailand and especially China. I’ve noticed so many examples of it here that it surprises me.

You can see here a box of doughnuts from “Double Donuts” which bears a striking resemblance to an American chain that’s also quite popular here. This place is not flying under the radar; it’s operating right by a busy subway station.

Courtesy of Anthony Bessette

KicKat

The other picture is of a candy bar called “KicKer” — something found in any convenience store. In all fairness, this candy bar has little ruler markings printed into it.

I’ve found an ice cream place called “Ba-su-kin Robbins,” loosely named after its founder. Its sign bore a strong resemblance to a U.S. chain.  There are also a growing number of folks selling pirated DVDs on the street side. Some are permanent and some aren’t, but they’re all very noticeable. There are even some right in Gangnam, only blocks away from the headquarters of Samsung, many top law firms, and the Korea Intellectual Property Institute. Many foreign businesspeople and Korean actors who probably star in many pirated movies must see these, but it doesn’t seem to change anything.

Finally, I had an idea: These are all instances where no one seeing the store or product would actually think the maligned trademark holder had something to do with the offending product.  What I mean is, no one eating at Double Donuts would mistakenly think they were eating Dunkin Donuts. Perhaps, I thought, trademark protection law in Korea only protects TM-holders against consumer confusion, and simply doesn’t recognize “TM dilution” the way U.S. courts do. This is the idea that a proliferation of knock-off products cheapens the good name or status of the original product, thereby hurting its business.

Then I saw a street vendor selling rip-off Nike and North Face shirts — not with similar logos, but identical ones.  There goes my theory. I think I’ll look for an intellectual property professor this week and bother him about it.

Anthony Bessette is studying abroad at Yonsei University for the spring 2009 semester.

Courtesy of Eunice Kim

Getting a better look at Cinderella (music composed by Prokofiev)

ST. PETERSBURG, Russia — I watched the ballet “Cinderella” with mixed emotions at the historic Mariinsky Theater (opened since 1783). Surrounded by elegant, gold decor of the timeless theater, the last thing I expected to see was the stepsisters dancing out in distasteful hot pink and black costumes; a contemporary take on the ballet. Aside from the initial shock from the bad outfits, the dancing was marvelous. Cinderella, in simple white, danced like an angel. Certainly a memorable first experience.

NORTHERN IRELAND — “Craic” (pronounced ‘crack’) — a good time, or news/gossip, as in:

“What’s the craic?”
“That was some great craic last night.”
“I’ll go for the craic.”

Craic is one of my favorite Irish phrases I’ve picked up so far. It’s gonna be big in the States. Or at least I’ll be saying it. Anyway, here’s some other good ones:

“Aye” — Yes
“That’s class.” — That’s awesome/cool/I like it.
“Chips” — French Fries
“Crisps” — Chips
“Mad/Mental” — Crazy, awesome, fun
“What ya at?’ — What’s up?
“Airlocked/Blocked/Off my Face” — Drunk

So, life abroad. It’s my second semester abroad … I studied in Spain last semester, and am at it again in Northern Ireland. Some people asked me if I miss Richmond — but being abroad is way too fun to worry about missing Ring Dance and D-hall Mint Chocolate Chip cookies (clearly on the same level).

I can’t believe it’s been six weeks since I arrived. It’s already flying by! The campus is beautiful, the people are great, and my room is pretty sweet (single room, private bathroom/shower, brand new kitchen … Lakeview has got some serious competition!)

A few weekends ago, Derry celebrated the 37th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, which was one of the most significant events during the “Troubles” of the Irish-British struggle. Bloody Sunday happened on January 30, 1972, here in Derry, when the British Parachute Regiment opened fire on the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, a non-violent group of protesters. Twenty-seven were shot and 13 died.

The city put on a lot of events to commemorate the victims and survivors of the event, and they did a great job at connecting the Irish-British conflict with other cases of ethnic and political conflict worldwide. Some of the events had been historical tours of the site, round tables on internment issues worldwide, dedication of a monument to Cuban revolutionary Che Guevara, candlelight vigil for Gaza, a fundraising concert, and a commemorative march and rally.

Although it was a sad series of events, they were really informative. Some were more biased than others, but it’s all important to better understand the conflict and the opinions of those who have been affected. I’ve especially liked all of the connections the events made across social and political borders like talking about Gaza, Darfur, Iraq, Cuba, and even the Basque Country.

A few weeks later, Derry celebrated “International Week of Solidarity with the Basque Country”, where there were even more events on comparing/contrasting the Basque situation and the ETA with the Northern Irish situation and the IRA. I studied in the Basque Country of Spain last semester in Bilbao and found those events to be particularly interesting. Members of the Irish-Basque committee held a forum on the issues and their ideas for moving forward with their campaigns. Some members shared more radical views than others, but the panelists I saw were all in agreement on self-determination for the Basque Country and reintegration of Northern Ireland into the Republic.

What I found even more interesting was that these people — although passionate and devoted to their cause — mostly had the facts wrong. I am much less familiar with the Irish conflict, having only been here for a few weeks, but I was shocked to hear how some of the Basque activists were describing their lives at home … making it seem as though they live lives of terror, fear, shame, and persecution. Maybe I didn’t see those parts of the Basque Country, but I doubt that’s truly the case, or at least not as widespread as they had argued.

One Basque representative explained the political system in Spain and claimed that the Basque people had “no voice whatsoever” in politics — which is not true. The nationalist PNV (Basque Nationalist Party) has been active in national politics for years, and although they don’t share the same goals for self-determination as the activists I met with, the PNV is one example of the “Basque voice” in politics. There has also been a large number of Basque political parties over the years who have been active and elected into government, but are often found as sympathetic to — or even directly connected to — the Basque terrorist group, ETA. Upon such findings, these parties are immediately banned from Spanish politics. However, the party’s elected members in official posts at the time of the party’s disbandment are allowed to complete their terms in office, which is a pretty liberal law sympathetic to the Basque voice, even though it’s being ’silenced’ on the grounds of violence prevention.

Anyway, I’m beginning to notice some interesting trends within these activist groups working for self-determination. Keeping in mind that this is only from my observation as an undergraduate with no hard facts or evidence, I feel as if many of these passionate individuals are fighting for a cause just for the sake of fighting. I found that many are generally of low socioeconomic backgrounds, have not gone to college, and generally have the same views as their parents, siblings, and friends. It’s a movement they can call their own in a society that often marginalizes them for other reasons (again, socioeconomic status or level of education). I wonder if these sentiments are passed down rather than independently developed, and if their activist work is more emotionally or intellectually driven. On that same note, which is more important? That’s a question I’ll have to think more about …

Moving away from the heavy stuff … I crashed a high school prom a few weeks ago. Forget about Ring Dance — my favorite adventure so far in Derry has definitely been the Foyle High School Prom.

I was out with a few American friends, and we had gone to the Derry City Hotel to see one of the Bloody Sunday events — a talk on internment rights and the Bradley/Eames agreement. On the way out, we ran into a few girls in prom dresses. We asked if it was their prom, only to be promptly corrected: “No, this is our formal. Are you Americans? That’s so cool! Why do you call it prom anyway? What I’m wearing is formal-wear, not PROM wear! Come in, come in!” And so we were dragged into what ended up being the best prom I’ve ever been to.

We danced for hours, completely out of place considering we were all wearing jeans, but we were warmly welcomed and ended up getting invited to a few high school after-parties. We politely declined, and headed home. The most interesting thing about it all was that there was a cash bar — these high school kids were totally blocked at their own prom! Definitely a different setting than what us Americans have been used to. The only people more airlocked than the students were the teachers. Bet you didn’t get wasted with your chemistry teacher at prom.

Hopefully my posts will get a little more exciting … I’m going to London, Dublin, Belfast, and Amsterdam over the next month. Any tourist-y suggestions?

Peace,
KB

http://web.mac.com/kellybehrend for pictures and video!

Classes began this week, and I have no big complaints. I am in class primarily with undergraduates. I’m not the sort to paint with a broad brush, and there are a great number of truly insightful undergraduates. But with so many undergraduates, some undergraduate things are bound to be said. Heaven knows such things get said in law school. 

One highlight was the first class meeting of “Human Rights in Korea & East Asia.”  Our discussion of the differing conceptions of the terms “law” (or droit, loi, recht, or 법) and “human rights” (ditto for droit de l’homme and 인권) among cultures and languages was quite interesting. The term “human rights” evokes a different set of references and mental pictures for an English speaker than “인권” does for a Korean. This seems to be the first of at least two roadblocks to a universal concept of human rights.

The second is this: Even if we made the incredible leap of assuming that the English understanding of human rights was true and universal, implementing it across the globe would require resort to local language. One can call law “법” or one can call it “law,” in which case it will just be mentally translated to “법” by locals.

But this is not the case. From my perspective, despite what a collection of dictators say, there are some human rights which are universal. Others are probably not, and the discussion of these usually tends toward non-Western thinkers claiming that international human rights is just a Western construct.

There is a tendency among many of us in the West, myself included, to dismiss these claims that our concept of human rights isn’t universal. Between this class and a new article on the serial killer Kang, it occurred to me that other cultures recognize certain legal rights as human rights, where we in the United States simply don’t. (For background, see my earlier post, “Human Rights v. Right to Know.”)

According to the latest article, the stature of that human right here in Korea is certainly slipping, but the still good law prohibiting the police from disclosing a suspect’s identity was passed specifically to protect his or her family from humiliation — called a human right.

Besides the longstanding socialist argument for positive human rights (food, water, etc), has anyone encountered other examples of “human rights” recognized in the non-Anglophone world that we do not?  I’m very interested in your considered comments.

Anthony Bessette is studying abroad at Yonsei University for the spring 2009 semester.

(Originally posted Feb. 1, 2009)

SEOUL, South Korea — In November, a female student went missing at a university south of Seoul, and murder was suspected. Around the time I arrived in Korea, authorities arrested a man suspected of killing her. The man, named Kang, confessed to killing her, as well as six other women over the past few years. Once Kang was taken into custody, the police had him wear a hood and cap to protect his identity from disclosure. He had a criminal record of some kind from before, and a few newspapers here disclosed his earlier mug shots.

This has set off a debate over which “right” is more important: The right of the people to know (I would call it freedom of the press, but no article I’ve read on the story has), or the right of the accused and his family to keep his identity a secret until he is proven guilty. In my understanding, this debate never happened or is long since over in the United States: the man’s face would be plastered over newspapers and TV immediately. If I’m wrong on that, please comment.

Does the way we approach this in the United States reflect our own values?  If we were in Korea’s position, having to hash this out right now,which decision should we make?

To read some more about the story, see this.

Interesting and tangentially related article.

Anthony Bessette is studying abroad at Yonsei University for the spring 2009 semester.

SAN SEBASTIAN, Spain — Our Richmond planner and Spidercard might not weigh much, but after half a semester abroad without them, the lightness is unreal.

A few days into our program here, one of my Richmond classmates and I were walking home from school when we turned around and saw the group we had set out with was 50 feet behind. We’d just begun to congratulate ourselves on the efficiency of our gait, when the reality of our condition hit us hard. We were race-walkers. Heads down, New-York-City-style speed-walkers. And that was one sport I’d never wanted to try.

We took a few seconds to absorb our surroundings — the sun was dancing across the turquoise river that was leading us to an afternoon at the beach. There was nothing to be done and nowhere to be. What was the rush?

We struggled for not only the rest of the walk, but for the rest of the month to adapt to the stroll and break our habit of gluing our eyes to the ground the moment we moved forward. To the shaking heads of San Sebastian natives, we’d catch ourselves weaving through pedestrians and trying to cross the street at red lights. I even ran into a shoulder-high roadblock … two days in a row.

Other signals of the extent to which we’d been pre-programmed to always be accomplishing something surfaced when another Richmond classmate confessed he felt guilty not having work to do every day, and another admitted she could actually sleep at night.

Although we are learning from class lectures and the intermittent homework assignments, there has been no equivalent to nightly Boatwright sessions. A couple of exercises and a final exam or paper. When I asked a professor if I could take my pre-semester language course exam early because I was traveling that weekend, his response was, “No me importa. Just do it by February.”

There have certainly been times when I’ve missed the efficiency of the United States, as when I was on an airport shuttle that was content with traveling behind a tractor for a half hour and more concerned with taking stretching breaks than getting us to our flights on time. And we’d never allow a Richmond Airport in D.C., unlike when I flew into a “Frankfurt Airport” that was two hours from Frankfurt. I’d probably never have to spend a night on an airport conveyor belt because of bird trouble either.

I’ll also never take my dryer or dishwasher for granted again, but it feels good to live under a different mindset. And I’m still in a first-world country. I can only imagine what other students are being exposed to in Africa or Latin America.

Although I’m mindful that in two months I’ll be home, the lesson of the possibility of another way to live won’t be irrelevant. In fact, considering what the state of the economy and my own bank account will be when I return, a new mindset will be essential.

So when my instinct was to be alarmed about the economy, a friend both caught me off-guard and reinforced my own new lesson when he said he was excited. The world financial system was not good, fair, nor honest, he said, and if our economy collapsed, a new and radically different system would not only be possible, but better.

Then he sent me a Google video called “Zeitgeist Addendum,” which dissected our monetary system with the assertion that we’ve been living under a system of glorified slavery, oppressed by our obsession with the bottom line.

In enjoying my semester slightly detached from the bottom line mindset, I was intrigued by the film’s solution of the Venus Project. Its goal is to abandon profit and competition for a high-technology, resource-based economy, reasoning that only technology can improve our lives through efficient resource use, not money, religion, nor politics.

Maybe Obama will offer some change, but if it’s not enough, if my semester abroad has taught me one thing it’s that a complete reprogramming needn’t cause dread, but invigoration.

The film presses, “…we must be open to new information at all times, even if it threatens our current belief system… being wrong is erroneously associated with failure, when in fact, to be proven wrong should be celebrated, for it is elevating someone to a new level of understanding, furthering awareness.”

My intention is not to dismiss our whole way of life nor Richmond’s, as it has afforded me this opportunity to be abroad and enabled my understanding of key concepts in the video. But in receiving a college education we are in the top 1 percent of the world, so I hope that upon graduation we’re not chasing money, since we’re seeing it can’t be relied on. Rather, I hope that we’re not merely open to, but the drivers of development, and that we can be leaders in daring to know something different, innovative, better.

LONDON — Intelligent Life magazine published a report on humour this past summer. They began their article with the findings of a recent study, which suggested that there was a “genetic explanation for some [of the] differences between the British and American styles of humour.”

The statement caught my eye as I was searching the internet for information on the technical differences between British and American humour. I had hoped that I could find some facts to use in my column this week, but sadly the article only used the statement as an attention-grabber. The rest of the article focused on the delayed start of scientifically studying humour and the call to further investigate what makes us laugh.

Perhaps there is material out there that I overlooked, but on the whole I agree with the article. The more time I spend in London, the more I encounter instances of cultural miscommunication when it comes to humour, and all my attempts to pinpoint why this is so have been in vain. And although ‘why we laugh’ is certainly not a critical issue, the disconnection between my American understanding and the British approach to comedy infects more areas of my daily interactions than I expected.

My confusion began when I first arrived. I was riding the bus and saw a billboard on the side of the road advertising toothpaste. I read it a few times without understanding it before I finally caved in and asked one of my London friends to explain it to me. Once she clarified the message, I felt a little silly for being so slow, but when another Richmond student here told me it also took her a few moments to understand it, I felt a little more justified.

When some Richmond friends came to visit me a while ago, we went to see a movie. Like most movie theaters, they ran advertisements and previews before the show. After each commercial played we would turn to each other with looks of pure confusion. We completely missed the messages in each advertisement, whether it was the odd computer-animated Virgin Mobile skit or the commercial we could only guess was for Snickers (assuming it was a commercial at all — we weren’t entirely sure).

A few weekends ago I decided to explore some of London’s lesser touristy spots. This included the Cartoon Museum and the Political Cartoon Gallery. They were both rather small places that wouldn’t have taken long to look through, but I’m pretty sure my 10 minute viewing times were a new record.

My biggest problem wasn’t that I didn’t recognize most of the cartoon characters (because I didn’t), but that I didn’t even care. In no way could I relate to the Bash Street Kids or a British Dennis the Menace with jet black hair. Part of me feels as if I should have expected the Political Cartoon Gallery to be way over my head, since I know very limited amounts about the way Margaret Thatcher’s policies were viewed by the general public or the minute highs and lows of the Conservative Party.

At least I can understand why I didn’t get the political cartoons, since they require a great amount cultural awareness and up-to-date knowledge about current events. But I can’t explain every other area. I saw a clip from the UK version of The Office — the scene where the Jim character puts the Dwight character’s stapler in Jell-o (Office fans should know what I’m talking about). I was shocked to find that it mirrored the American version almost word for word. Yet I didn’t find it funny. The words were the same, but something in the voice inflections, facial expressions, the way the characters carried themselves and the comedic timing made me interpret the scene completely different.

Someone somewhere should get a grant to research this kind of stuff, and when you do, please let me know your results. I really want to know how these things make a difference and why. Maybe then I can join in the laughter.

LONDON — For those of you who might have forgotten, Nov. 11, was Veterans Day. In the United States, the day is meant to honor all veterans who have served, both in peacetime and wartime. Unlike Memorial Day, which honors those who have died in service to their country, Veterans Day is largely intended to thank living veterans for their service and acknowledge that all those who served have sacrificed and done their duty. Other countries celebrate this day as well, and over the past two weeks, I have been learning a lot about how Britons view the holiday.

Around the end of October, I noticed red paper flowers pinned to the jackets and coats of people I passed on the streets. My curiosity grew, and I finally asked one of my British classmates about it. He told me that they were poppies, worn as a symbol of remembrance for veterans. In slight confusion, I told him that I was under the impression most countries celebrated on November 11 – the day the armistice was passed and World War I unofficially ended. Slightly amused at my naivety, he told me that they do celebrate on that day, but you have to properly start preparing for it in the weeks beforehand.

Our conversation piqued my interest even more, and I started researching where the poppies were coming from and what they meant. My quest became easier when a few days later I saw a flyer on campus that advertised the need for “Poppy Collectors” to stand on streets and help collect money for the Poppy Appeal. I took my new information to Google, and was led to the Royal British Legion Web site.

The Royal British Legion is a charity that provides support to those who have served or are currently serving in the Armed Forces. Every year, they organize the Poppy Appeal to raise money and show support. Throughout the country, volunteers stand on streets with buckets for change and baskets full of poppies. Make a donation and you receive a poppy to wear.

The significance of wearing a poppy dates back to 1918, when WWI ended and people wanted a way to remember those who had died. Moina Michael, the American war secretary, conceived the idea of selling poppies after being inspired by John McCrae’s 1915 poem, “In Flanders’ Field.”

The first stanza of the poem reads: “In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow / Between the crosses, row on row, / that mark our place: and in the sky / The larks, still bravely singing, fly / Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

In the United States, poppies are traditionally worn on Memorial Day, when we remember those who died, not on Veterans Day. But in Britain, Nov. 11 is the British’s day to remember those who have sacrificed their lives for their country.

On Remembrance Day itself, the nation has a two-minute silence at 11 a.m. In addition to this, they also celebrate Remembrance Sunday on the Sunday before Nov. 11.

I had the amazing opportunity to attend the National Service of Remembrance this past Sunday and participate first-hand in this holiday.

Every year, there is a service in London at the Cenotaph, a large monument located on Parliament Street that was erected to honor those who have died in war. Before the official ceremony starts at 11 a.m., military bands and veterans march toward the monument. Members of the Royal Family attend, and the Queen lays a wreath of poppies at the base of the Cenotaph as a tribute to all of those who have died in war. A few words are spoken by the Archbishop, other officials lay wreaths and a few songs are sung. The ceremony ends with the veterans parading back down the street past the Cenotaph, placing poppies and wreaths on the monument as they pass.

Two days before this ceremony, I visited the Imperial War Museum, which had large exhibits on both World Wars, among other things. Especially in the World War II section, I was struck by the immense sacrifice of all of those involved. Whether it was reading about all the children who were sent out of London into the countryside, seeing a replica of the bomb shelter that would have been in most London homes, learning about the people who lived in the Underground Stations to protect themselves from the bombings, calculating how much food citizens were allowed to buy because of the rationing, or listening to the stories of the men and women who gave their time and lives, I realized how much I owe this country as well.

The protection of freedom and liberty is a cause that many nations have taken up, and in events like World War II the benefits of cooperation is evident. I am proud to be an American and grateful for all American soldiers past and present, but I am also grateful for all the other nations who fought for my freedom as well.

Watching the parade of veterans march by on Sunday was an emotional event. In a city where many buildings still show the damage from WWI bombings, the impact of war, especially World War II, lives much closer to the surface. It has been inspiring to see so much patriotism in the everyday lives of the citizens. I’ll be bringing my poppy back to the United States to wear as a symbol of my gratitude to all of those who have sacrificed for freedom. I realize this article is coming a few days after Veterans Day, but it is never too late to be thankful.

MELBOURNE, Australia — Because of my weekly travels and studious nature, I have been a bit behind reporting my adventurous activities abroad. I have failed to skip (or finish) my action-packed spring break with the Extreme Adventures One Fish, Two Fish trip. I could write pages of my nine-day adventure traveling the western coast of Oz and had every intention of reporting all of my quirky encounters and detailed experiences, but I just realized that my spring-break journal is nearly seven pages single-spaced and could just about be considered a short story. I shall try to keep it to a minimum and will accept questions after.

Typical Spring Break: Drinking in some tropical, beachy-area with a handful of your university friends and a bunch of new ones by the end of the week. If you’re lucky … or even better, if you manage to sign up in time for that MTV Spring Break and can finagle your way in front of the crowd, just for that split-second you could be caught on camera and could brag that you were on TV. Granted, most vacations are this relaxing, but I have never been so adventurous in such a short period.

Day 1: We started our trip off in Brisbane at 8:30 a.m. and headed to the Steve Irwin Zoo. Unfortunately, one person decided to arrive an hour later, which meant we just missed holding the koalas at the only zoo you are allowed to. How disappointing. At this point in my Australian journeys, I have fed more kangaroos then I think humanly possible, and thought I would be able to have a stab at a different animal. Maybe it is just not the right time.

After the zoo, we quickly popped into a pub and headed to our accommodation at Harvey Bay. That night, the agenda called for dinner and a cruise. Let me say, I really enjoy cruises and being on the water in general, but I tend to get motion sickness, whether on a boat, plane or in a car. We didn’t leave the dock because of the wind and rough water until after we had our BBQ, which consisted of the usual sausages on a slice of bread and the driest steaks imaginable. The boat wasn’t very big, and since it was so windy and cold everyone was tightly squeezed near the bar. I spent most of the time with my head between my knees because I felt like I was on a never-ending amusement-park-pirate boat.

Day 2: Our day began bright and early, four-wheeling in a bus around Fraser Island. Not kidding, we went through the forest and hit some extreme pot holes, which caused the people in the backseat to hit their heads on the ceiling they flew up so high. After our intense and painful drive, for some, we hung out by the freshwater Lake McKenzie, and toured the island, hoping to spot some dingoes and Great White Sharks (which we didn’t see any of the above). Our next location was at Airlie Beach — a 12hour bus ride. Yes, 12 hours on a bus, not the most enjoyable thing! And who didn’t sleep … ME! I even took sleeping pills, but I was so uncomfortable, the kid behind me was snoring and my back was killing, so I didn’t sleep. We arrived at Airlie Beach around 6:30 in the morning, but immediately packed a small bag for the next few nights on South Molle Island in the Whitsunday’s. The group then hopped on a boat that took us to White Haven Beach, one of the top three beaches in the world!

Day 3-5: For the next few days, our spring break clan spent the majority of the time kayaking, rafting, hiking the island, bronzing, just the typical beach day activities. When it was time to leave the island and venture to our next location, we jumped on a massive yacht and sailed back to Airlie Beach. We had incredible weather, which led to a pretty relaxing day, although I have never been out in the sun for that long in my life. There was no escaping it, and you just about had to put up a white flag and surrender your body because there was no hiding from the intense sun. At least there were locations to snorkel and to float around the sand bars, which cooled us off a bit.

Cairns was our next destination, and that night we had another extremely long and uncomfortable bus ride. Granted it was only a 6 hour ride, and thought it would be quite manageable after the dreadful one to Airlie Beach, but I think it was worse. Especially after an hour or so into the trip a kid realized he left his book bag, passport et al, hanging on the fence outside of McDonalds. I mean, come on! That, of course, added additional time to the already awful ride, and we didn’t arrive at our hostel until 2 a.m. and had to wake up at 7 a.m. for whitewater rafting.

Day 6: Waking up early was every bit worth it for the whitewater rafting on the Tully River. The Tully is located in the wettest part of Oz and is the best or one of the best whitewater rafting locations in the world! Even though they we rafted at level 4-5 rapids, it was quite relaxing. The water was of good temperature, and if you haven’t been rafting before, it isn’t always intense-go-at-the-rapids every minute. It is a rapid or two, and nice float down the river, and back into the rapids. We did see a cassowary, which are endemic to Australia, very aggressive and also very rare to see in the wild.

Although my biggest concern was that I would cross paths with a freshwater alligator. Oh goodness, I don’t even know what I would have done. The image from the movie Jumanji, when they roll the dice and the house floods and the alligator swims on by, kept passing through my head. Whew, glad that didn’t happen.

For the rest of the trip we stayed at this hostel called Gilligans, which I would consider more of a resort because of the pool, bars and restaurants it included. Not your typical hostel.

Day 7: Next day was a day of adrenaline, heights and audacity! The morning began with nothing more than a little bit of skydiving. Yes, jumping out of a plane at 14,000 and free falling for 60 seconds was probably the most amazing experience I have ever had! After only one jump, I am completely addicted and would love to be a certified sky diver so that I can jump solo! It was worth every penny I spent, and I highly recommend it.

Because it is law that unless you are a certified sky diver, you have to jump tandem, there were six jumpers and six instructors in the tiny plane. Luckily, my instructor, Coops, was on the Australian sky diving team, so I felt fairly safe. It took about 20 minutes to reach our altitude of 14,000 feet, and one by one, with our arms crossed and head back, the instructors pushed us out of the aircraft. I was the last one to be tossed out of the plane, and pretty sure that I screamed for the majority of the 60 second free fall. After our parachutes were opened, it was about a five or six minute float until we touched ground. It was incredible to have such a vast view of Cairns, and as the last one out I got to watch everyone land. I did get a little motion sickness at the end, when Coops decided to do twists and turns. Ugh.

Well, we didn’t have much time after our dive before we had to prepare for Night disco bungee jumping! I was more afraid to bungee jump then sky dive because it is such an individual and mental feat. We were 150 feet up and our view down was a huge pool of water. Once you climb to the top, the guys tie up your feet, push you to the edge, count to 5 and then it’s up to you to jump. Crazzzy! I am glad I did it, but it was nothing compared to sky diving. I thought it would hurt because it looks like you get whipped when you bounce back up, but it doesn’t at all. I did have a bit of a head rush since I was hanging upside down for so long, but that was the extent of my injuries.

Day 8: Yay! Scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef. Of course it was overcast, and I was so motion sick on the boat, but again, another great adventure! The best part was that I am a certified diver, and I could go the full 60 feet. So amazing and another check-off on my list of things to do. I think it would have been better if it were sunny because then the colors of the reef would have been more brilliant, but it was still magnificent. It was quite nice just to space out underwater and take in the marine environment.

The remainder of my time Cairns was nothing adventurous or comparable to the days before. It was quite an intense, yet memorable spring break which I don’t think I will ever top anytime soon.

MELBOURNE, Australia — It’s 9 a.m., and the sun exposes salt residue on my legs as I peel of my socks, only to reveal two massive blisters on my right foot. Grossly enough, I am pleased; in fact all smiles as I gaze at the finish line in the MCG, the finish line that I crossed one hour and 48 minutes ago.

It all seemed so long ago — turning off my alarm clock at 5 a.m., hurriedly eating my banana and Vegemite toast and frantically pinning on No. 7886 to my shirt while rushing out the door to meet my mate at 6 a.m.

Ten minutes to go, now 45 seconds and BANG! It was the sound reminding me I had 21.1 kilometers, 13 miles if you may, to run. It was the ASICS Half Marathon, my first half marathon and the largest half marathon to ever take place in Australia. Quite a site at 7 a.m. — 7,500 competitors, running to support The Cerebral Palsy Education Centre (CPEC), the official charity partner of the Samsung Melbourne Marathon. In fact, 20,000 people volunteered their time and support for the CPEC by participating in one of the four races sponsored by Samsung, ASICS, The Coffee Club and Active Feet.
I couldn’t believe the morning had come. After three weeks of spring break and a bit of slacking off on the training, I was a bit nervous as to my completion of the race. As I devoured heaps of pasta and gulped down gallons of water the night before, I incessantly reminded myself that I just wanted to finish, not in last place, and under two hours. There was no need to be regretful of the registration decision I had made months ago, but any sort of race brought back memories of high school track and how my nerves tended to get the best of me …

After hearing the start gun, I didn’t have much of a choice but to run, to enjoy myself and to make the best of it. In my head, I repeated over and over again: “Pace yourself, pace yourself, this is not a sprint, but a marathon … well, half.”

It was quite a leisurely run because of perfect temperature and enjoyable scenery. The course circled around St. Kilda, the lakeside of Albert Park and Beaconsfield Parade, which is along Port Phillips Bay.
BUT, my nose would grow if I said I ran the race with no difficulty. The first 10K was a breeze, and I was doing well both physically and mentally. Then I hit a wall around 14/15km, and secretly wished I could jump on the person’s back in front of me in hopes of him carrying me to the finish line. Too obvious that it didn’t happen?

I all but had to lift my legs with each stride and distract myself from the dreadful feeling that each kilometer seemed to be getting longer and longer. Note to self: Next time I decide to run a half-marathon or a marathon, it would be wise not to go on vacation just weeks before!
I did get a boost of energy at the final kilometers of the race when I heard the cheers from my friends and knew the MCG was merely minutes away. Ah! What a sensation of accomplishment: crossing the finish line and completing my first half marathon in Australia.

Even better, I received a finisher’s medal and free stuff galore. How exciting! Though, when I flaunt my medal, I like to pretend I actually placed in the top three; yea, not so much … maybe next time … which there will be, but this time the full thing. Look out Richmond marathon, here I come!

LONDON — Two weeks ago I was fortunate enough to attend a guided tour of Parliament. The building is only open to non-UK residents during the Summer Opening, when Parliament is not in session and the Members are away from Westminster. We followed the same route through the building that the Queen takes each year during the State Opening of Parliament.

Not only did our tour guide give us information about the formal opening ceremony, but she mixed in a detailed account of how the government runs on a day-to-day basis as well. On the whole, it gave me an amazing chance to step inside history and gain a clearer understanding of how the UK government operates. The information I learned on the tour also helped to explain a trend that I had been observing in many of my conversations about politics.

I would guess that in the month that I have been here, I’ve had students ask me about who I am voting for in the November election about every week and a half. Each time the conversation runs about the same. They ask me who I’m voting for, and when I tell them I am not discussing it (a wise piece of advice given by the Study Abroad Office) they immediately begin a rant about their perspective on American politics.

On the whole I try to remain a silent and neutral observer. I find it is much more conducive for gaining their unfiltered opinion. Always, I am left marveling at their immense interest in American affairs, especially in comparison to my perception that Americans (as a whole) are highly uninterested in theirs. At times I even feel as if they might know more about American politics than I do … a fact that makes me pause and reevaluate my cultural awareness.

Each time the speakers bring up the election, they begin with the declaration that they would vote for Obama. To them, President Bush has completely messed up the American government, and to vote for another Republican would be like asking for four more years of the exact same thing. Now I realize that many Americans share this viewpoint of linking John McCain to Bush (indeed it is one of Obama’s slogans), but the European perspective goes further then this.

British people do not separate the person from the party. For them, McCain and Bush are both Republicans and therefore exactly the same. Upon visiting Parliament and hearing the tour guide’s explanation, I came to understand the underlying reasons for the different political assumptions held by people here.

In the UK they have three major political parties, as well as many more minor ones. As a result, the parties are more fitting to the political beliefs of the representatives and there are less gray areas within each party.

But with only two major parties in America, moderates often work within the system and run under the party they lean closest to. In turn, this produces more gray areas that Americans understand as part of our two-party system.

I believe that based on their understanding of Parliament, the British form a stricter association between our politicians and parties than the average American does. It is understandable, since I doubt they frequently brush up on the American Declaration of Independence or the Constitution.

Now that I have a better understanding of the British government, I feel that I have a firmer grasp of peoples’ perceptions and the global image of American politics.

MELBOURNE, Australia — With the $2.00 of remaining balance I have on my Global Gossip internet card, all I can say is that my Extreme Adventure spring break has been just that, extreme. The rainforest walk this afternoon is the last of the organized tours on my One Fish, Two Fish trip, but I have made more memories in these past nine days, then I thought I would. In three days alone, I went white water rafting on the Tully River, jumped out of a plane at 14,000 feet, bungee jumped at 50 m and scuba dived in the Great Barrier Reef. I also bronzed at one of the top three beaches in the world and sailed the Atlantic in a multi-million dollar boat. Oh gosh, I have less than 5 minutes of credit remaining, but more to come when I get home in 2 days, pictures and all!

LONDON — Before I left for my time abroad in London, I had thought that I was fully prepared for all the adjustments I’d have to make. I memorized all the advice from the University of Richmond Study Abroad Office, read every website devoted to “London travel tips” that Google had to offer, and listened to all of the Harry Potter books on CD to get used to British accents. Now that I’ve actually arrived in London the story is a bit different.

What I’ve realized in my first week of living abroad is just that, I am now living in a country 3,725.8 miles from home. Yes, it was useful to know what to pack and recognize places like King’s Cross when I see it on a map, but those things help me very little in my day to day living.

I feel hugely underprepared for life in a British university (“uni” as the Brits call it) compared to the local students. I’m living in a single room with my own bathroom, but I share a kitchen and a hallway with my five flatmates. When I arrived the first day, I was shocked to discover that there was no toilet paper in my bathroom, only to feel like a stupid American when my neighbor told me we had to buy our own.

Already I miss D-hall, where options are endless and meal preparation means getting out your Spidercard. While they have a few places to eat on campus, students are expected to cook for themselves. My flat has a kitchen equipped with a stove, a microwave and a refrigerator. Pots, pans, plates, utensils, food, napkins, spices, towels … students must buy it all. Most of my flatmates have already whipped up full meals, whereas I’m grateful for my can of ravioli.

One of my flatmates explained that over here, they know that going away to school means living on their own, and they come fully prepared. It seems as if we tend to drag that process out more in America. I didn’t expect these kinds of tasks until after graduation.

Orientation here was much different than Richmond’s as well. They told us how to register for classes, and then handed us a packet with information about local stores and told us, “Good luck!” After the first few days we were left to figure out campus, the city and classes for ourselves.

I feel as if I’ve done an admirable job with trying to jump right into the London culture during my first week here. I’ve seen Big Ben, visited St. Paul’s Cathedral, eaten at my first pub and navigated the Tube on my own. But by Sunday night I was pretty exhausted. I’m hoping now that I know what responsibilities to expect, it will get a bit easier.

MELBOURNE, Australia — Apart from my studious nature and countless pub crawls around Melbourne, I do take the time to be your typical American tourist with the fanny pack and huge camera around my neck. Okay, so not quite that extreme, but yes, I have been fortunate enough to tour some of the natural attractions of Australia; although I do have to whine a bit — or, I guess, laugh — because it would be my luck that three out of three tours I have been on, I haven’t been blessed with the best weather. By that I mean, it rained every time, I got stuck in a hail and thunderstorm on a beach and our Great Ocean Road trip turned into the coldest day Australia has seen in 10 years; but I will elaborate more on the not-so-perfect-day-weather-wise trips in just a bit.

Trip 1: Healesville Wildlife Sanctuary and Yarra Valley Wine Region

They don’t lie — those people who tell you that Melbourne has four seasons in one day. From the moment I stepped off Qantas Airways, I guess you can say I had the good fortune of experiencing this seasonal mayhem. First of all, going from uncomfortably-hot-and-humid-95-degree weather to overcast and 40 degree climate is a bit of a shock. I was forewarned of the opposite seasons or told that I chose the wrong semester to go down under, but either way, I was aware of the winter season. Knowing this, I made sure to pack my sweaters, rain jacket and UGGs, but again with my luck (if you haven’t caught on by now, I am not the luckiest clover in the bunch), Qantas lost my luggage. So here I am, halfway across the world, stuck wearing the same clothes for a week. Of course I showered because I am not one to break my habitual hygiene habits, but I tell you it is not the same after-shower-refreshing feeling when you have to don the same clothes and underwear for several days.

Okay, so what is important is not my droning on about past events, but rather the unbelievable adventures I have had so far in Oz …

Upon my arrival, I confirmed my place in the Melbourne Welcome at Queens College. What this was, was basically pre-orientation operated by Australian students who wore fluorescent-colored sweat suits and guided 50 international students to must-see tourist locations or more importantly, the local pubs throughout Victoria.

Our leaders took us to the Healesville Wildlife Sanctuary and the Yarra Valley Wine Region for our first excursion outside of Melbourne. At the wildlife reservation, the animals, for the most part, ran wild. Besides the reptiles, Tasmanian devils and dingoes that had legitimate cages, the rest of the Australian fauna roamed the premise of the sanctuary freely. In addition to feeding the kangaroos and massive pelicans, we spent the majority of our time searching for shelter from the rainy weather and warming our hands by the miniature fireplace near the reptile house.

After sprinting through the downpour to our bus, the leaders took us to the Yarra Valley Wine Region for some quality wine-tasting and a brief information session on how to bottle wine. Unfortunately, the group did not a get a tour of the vineyards because of the overcast and drizzly weather, but that was okay because I learned the proper way to taste and smell wine. I can now officially say I am an expert …

Trip 2: The Great Ocean Road

The Great Ocean Road is one of the world’s most scenic roads along the coastline of southwest Victoria, Australia. It is a memorial to those Australians who died fighting in the First World War, and along its route and in the towns, there are a number of statues that honor those who lost their lives.

The journey begins at Torquay, finishes near Warrnambool, takes around four hours to drive its entirety and covers nearly 151 miles. Oh, how could I forget to mention: It’s probably the windiest road I have ever experienced! Fun fact about myself: I get extreme motion sickness. I take ginger pills before every flight, live for Dramamine when boating and always carry a set of Sea Bands, which apply pressure on the acupressure point on each wrist to reduce nausea and vomiting.

What can I say? I have a weak stomach. Although what does not go well with queasiness is rainy, chilly weather; and by chilly I mean the coldest day Oz has seen in ten years! Ten years, and to my good luck, I witnessed it. I all but fought the wind on the last day of our trip as I struggled to keep my balance walking toward the beach against the huge gusts of wind and massive rain drops. Not to mention I could barely see through my mass of hair that just about acted as a balloon trying to carry me off into the clouds!

Despite my continual nausea and chattering teeth, I managed to capture hundreds of pictures of the spectacular beaches of Lorne, the waterfalls and treetops in Otway and the Twelve Apostles which majestically rise from the Southern Ocean.

Phillip Island

This nature island, located in Western Port, is a place of natural beauty, sandy beaches and unique wildlife experiences. It is famous for the Penguin Parade which takes place after sunset when the little Penguins waddle up the beach to the safety of their homes in the sand dunes.

A few weeks ago, I went to Phillip Island, organized by an outdoor program, with 24 other Americans. We woke up early and started our two-hour bus trip in the pouring rain. What a surprise!

After a quick lunch, our group followed our guide Jared for an enjoyable walk along the beach and a three-kilometer trail that overlooks the water. At this point, the weather was fairly sunny, a bit breezy, but very tranquil. Our guide enlightened us about all the venomous insects and animals in Australia, and nonchalantly mentioned that Great White Sharks infested the waters in Phillip Island because of the seal habitation nearby. As I made a mental note to never go surfing here, Jared abruptly stopped the group and advised us to head back to the bus because a storm was approaching; and he wasn’t joking!

Jared immediately took off in a trot and insisted we pick up the pace. Since our guide was now running, we all frantically took off and followed him. As soon as most of us got on the beach, it started to downpour! In fact, downpour is an understatement, because it was not the most favorable thunderstorm to be caught in, since it included hail.

The most amusing part was watching everyone attempt to run along the beach, in the sand, during this monsoon while trying to keep their rain jackets and hoods on. It got to the point where it was so hard to run, that everyone just walked and by the time they arrived at the bus, they were absolutely drenched. It looked like we had just jumped into a pool, but it was so unpleasant that Jared stopped at the next town so we could buy a new wardrobe! As humorous as it was, it was a bit inconvenient because it was the first stop of the day.

After the pit stop of sweatpants and coffee, we went to a wildlife preserve, fed countless animals and headed off to watch the Penguin Parade after sunset.

Overall, it was a fantastic trip, and the erratic weather only betters my memories and adventures. I am taking the optimistic approach to this unpredictable weather and am concluding that it can only get better from here. This means I am expecting to have the best spring break weather! As a matter of fact, it is 5:10 a.m. right now, and I am leaving in 15 minutes to start my journey up the eastern coast of Australia. After a two week break, I guarantee I will have stories or better yet a novel to write when I return. Well, at least I better because if not then I didn’t demonstrate and maintain the proper meaning of spring break, right?!

Contact blogger Sawyer Weirman at sawyer.weirman@richmond.edu

MELBOURNE, Australia — So here I am in the land down under, 9,463 miles away from America and eating vegemite sandwiches. My original assumption was that Oz was similar to the United States, but as the weeks pass, I realize the only thing in common is that both countries speak English! These Aussies lead a completely different lifestyle than a typical Richmonder.

We all have our typical associations of people, places and things: peanut butter and jelly, Jekyl and Hyde, 8:15 at Boatwright and Richmond. Since I have been here, I have added a few more associations to my book:

1. NBA and America. It is the most common topic of conversation when an Aussie establishes my American background.

“I love the NBA,” they often say. Then ask, “do you watch it? What is your favorite team?”

2.Pennsylvania and Transylvania. Yes, that’s correct. I have had quite a few people think that I live with the vampires. When I tell them I am from Pennsylvania, their eyes light up and they say, “Ah! You live with Dracula and the vampires?” It is heartbreaking to see their faces fall when I have to break the news that is Transylvania is not even located in the United States.

3. Surfing and the nuddy. If it is not obvious, to be in the nuddy means to be naked. I had my first adventure surfing a few weekends ago at the beaches in Torquay, and it was good fun! Once you learn the basics of catching a wave and positioning yourself on the board, it is a matter of repetition until you can stand up without thinking about it. After a long day of trying to surf in the 60 degree water and massaging my sore arms, all I wanted to do was bundle up in my purple, fleece blanket and watch the Olympics, but that was all but impossible because of the dozen or more Australian surfers dancing around naked in the corner.

Wide-eyed and in complete disbelief, another surfer reassured me that this was not uncommon, but a regular occurrence and more frequent when the weather warms up because riding the waves in the nuddy was a club favorite. Hm …

It would be foolish of me not to describe the fashion style, not so much of the girls, but more so the blokes. I found that Australians can point out that I am an American even before I speak because of our different fashion, and the fact that they don’t rock the North Face fleece, like us sepos do. (A little note about the term sepos: it is what the Aussies call Americans because we are like septic tanks, a.k.a. we are full of crap.
Oh, and please do not take this to heart because it is just a playful term!) The other day I had numerous Aussies and Europeans tell me I looked fancy because I was wearing a JCrew sweater vest! If only they went to Richmond…

Anyway, back to the dress code. I would have to say that American boys have it worse off in terms of fitting in with style because of two distinctions: skinny jeans and short shorts. Now, I know that skinny jeans are fashionable, but before I came to Melbourne, I associated skinny jeans with girls. Yes, girls here definitely wear skinny jeans, but blimey, so do the fellas. And when I say skinny, I would have to compare their legs to the size of my arms. No lie, I actually think that I have more muscle in my arms than a few of the guys’ legs I have seen, and that is not saying much! It is also interesting to note that Australia has a larger obesity population than America; though living in the city and seeing this skinny-jean style daily, I have yet to see many obese people.

Another clothing item is the short shorts. It is only September, and the temperature is starting to creep up to the high 50s and low 60s, but the short shorts are emerging! These are not the khaki-style shorts, but colorful, bathing-suit-type material, above-the-knees shorts. In fact, they remind me of the shorts my father would have been found wearing in the ‘70s. This style distinction was a bit of a surprise at first, but after seven weeks, it is starting to grow on me. I can’t fathom the day skinny jeans and short shorts reach the United States.

Australian dancing is another topic that must be discussed and kept in mind for those planning to venture Down Under anytime soon. Note to self: It is NOT lodge dancing, but rather no-touch dancing! In fact, if there is contact when you dance, it means that your partner plans to pick up with you, or, as known in the States, hooking up. It is amusing and rather easy to scan a dance floor and distinguish the Americans from Australians. It boggles Australians’ minds when you describe the standard dance moves of Americans. Ah, if only they could witness a lodge party …

Well, it is crazy to think that it is mid-semester already, and spring break is approaching. There is little work to be done throughout the semester, but that is because they throw it all at you during mid-term and finals week. This means there are three to four assignments worth anywhere from 20 to 60 percent of your grade! I am bogged down with work at the moment, and will admit that I am more appreciative of Richmond in terms of the academic structure, registration process and sense of time.

It’s humorous to think back to my first week of courses because I was extremely frazzled and overwhelmed. The staff at University of Melbourne send you from one place to the next, and after about 10 buildings, the receptionist at your current location says to you, “Oh, well it actually won’t work out for you.” Or “Oh, how silly of them to send you here because you need to go to this building off campus and then go back to the first building to stalk a professor and see if you can possibly get into that class, which is doubtful.”

On the first day of classes, I ran around trying to add courses and become accustomed to the building locations on campus. At 2:15 p.m. on Monday, I arrived at my first class, and after five minutes of teaching, the professor realized the course was overfull because of the large amount of students sitting on the floor in the lecture hall. In a matter of seconds, the professor changed the time and location of the course and did not seem concerned if the change would conflict with students’ schedules! About 20 or so kids left because they had class at the time the course was moved to. Of course, I was one of them, which did not help with my already stressful day.

Speaking of stressful, it looks like it is going to be a long week, and I must get back to my studies! More to come …

It was the day before I left for my journey to Europe. All summer, I had been mentally preparing myself. I was going to live in a small Spanish city for four months, attend a university in which no one spoke English and try to do it successfully.

After finally accepting that I would be going without Chick-fil-A for an entire semester (something I had never done before … deep breaths, Julia), I became excited to try new foods and discover a different hangover cure (which had been the No. 1 on the value menu for two years). I packed my leather jacket and boots and left behind my jean jacket and Red Sox hat. I was determined to fit in and I would dress, speak and act the part. I did not want to be what the Univeristy of Richmond prepared us not to be: an Ugly American.

I thought back to my long progression to reaching that point. All in all, the Richmond study abroad application process was great. They helped us with anything and all that we needed, and organized it well. But what I quickly learned once I got to Spain was that no pamphlet or info session could prepare a 20-year-old girl to live in a country very different from her own.

I immediately missed Wal-Mart and Sheetz. What slightly frightened me was that the speakers at the study abroad orientation last April prepared us by explaining everything we shouldn’t do. “Don’t wear your Greek letter shirts on Fridays,” “DON’T travel alone,” and my personal favorite, “Don’t bring home any souvenirs that you can’t give back.” I wasn’t exactly planning on getting pregnant, Richmond, but thanks for the heads up.

Mostly people have welcomed Americans here with open arms, yet there are times when we get blank stares because we’ve used the wrong Spanish vocabulary. My first night here I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some fruit. I hadn’t eaten anything healthy in two days because the chicken on the plane was a mix of dark meat and yellow flesh, and the airport vending machines only had an array of Cheeto-like-snacks and Kinder bars (delicious by the way).

What I didn’t realize after putting the oranges down at the register was that I had to weigh them first at the fruit weigh station. I wanted to tell the clerk that I was embarrassed. “Estoy embarazada,” I said. She gave me a disgusted look, laughed and whispered “Ayy, Americana.” How rude! I took my bags, left the oranges and walked home feeling defeated. I quickly whipped out my Spanish-English dictionary and lo and behold, I had told the woman I was pregnant. That brought me right back to that orientation.

My first few days in San Sebastian were a bit overwhelming, slightly embarrassing and all in all incredible. I studied the Spanish girls walking the streets, wearing thick scarves and cool leather boots in 75-degree weather. “I can do that!” I thought. Oh, but the profuse sweating when meeting new people made things slightly awkward. So, I went back to wearing tank tops and stored the scarves for the winter months.

The next life lesson in Spain was the process of meeting new people. The Spanish university here separates the international students into intensive Spanish classes to prepare them for the “real” Spanish classes with the “real Spanish students” that would begin two weeks later. Because I was going to take my journalism and communications classes in Spanish, this was great for me. It was also good to get to know the other international students. They hailed from all over Europe: Italy, Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Holland and Belgium. What they all had in common was that they spoke at least three languages, listened to crazy Euro Techno music and were rail-thin.

But what I liked most about these new friends was they all had a good sense of who they were, and a deep appreciation for their cultures. Juliette is a 6-foot tall Dutch model who rocks Birkenstocks daily and smokes two packs a day. Blair is a crazy Scotsman who has more pride in his country than anyone I’ve ever met. He wears a green plaid Scottish kilt that resembles my Catholic high school uniform and likes to think he sounds like Gerard Butler to the American girls. If we close our eyes hard enough, he does. Then there’s Paolo, the passionate Italian. He epitomizes just about every stereotype of Italian men that exists. He walks by yelling “Ciao Bellas!” to the girls while wearing soccer jerseys, jean capri pants and a man-bag, and we love him for it.

Though it was fun learning how to say swears in eight different languages, the other students, along with the Spaniards, loved to hear what we Americans had to say as well. Every time my roommate, Hannah Benabdallah, introduced herself to a new person, his or her automatic reaction would be: “Hannah Montana! ¿Como estás?”

Julianne Mulhall, another roommate, constantly has to explain why her English is slightly different than the others’. “I’m from Laawwng Island, New Yowahk,” she says. But first prize for hardest name pronunciation goes to Blaike Ford, a fellow Spider here. A typical Spanish conversation between Blaike and a Spaniard is:

– “Hola, soy Blaike.”
– “Playte?”
– “No, Blaike, con una ‘B.’”
– “Ohhhhh Blayte.”

After the 10th time, she gave up and usually just goes by “Rubia” (blond girl).

We Americans slowly became more comfortable with the other “internationals” and finally gave in to our American ways. We showed them the best Lil Wayne songs to download and explained to them that not everyone has a “Super Sweet 16” like on MTV. When I told a girl from Holland that my 16th birthday consisted of pasta and movies with my friends and family, she seemed shocked. “You didn’t get a Hummer for your birthday like they do on TV?” In her defense, though, the only impression I had of Holland was Austin Powers as “Goldmember.” Pathetic, I know.

Just as we appreciated them for their cultures, and for their personalities, we too felt as if we could do the same. Yes, they joked about us being “typical Americans,” but it was all in good fun. Juliette rocked her Birkenstocks, so I shouldn’t have been too ashamed to wear my Frye boots in a foreign country. It was all about balancing how to learn the new ways of the Spanish culture while still being true to my own.

So yes, being an Ugly American is often an ugly thing. For instance, if you travel abroad not knowing the political situation of the country that you plan to visit, then you deserve to be made fun of. Don’t walk around Paris with a Bush-Cheney ’04 T-shirt because it’s not the best idea. But the important thing to remember is that we are studying abroad to learn the culture. We are not on vacation. We LIVE here, for an entire semester. So don’t be too afraid of the stigma. If you show interest in other people’s cultures, then they will often reciprocate.

As long as you don’t walk around a crowded European street with a polo shirt, khakis, boat shoes and Ray Bans with croakies (no offense KAs) while fist pumping to a Bruce Springsteen song on your iPod, you’ll be fine. Relax, go with the flow and try to learn the culture without losing your sense of self. Because being a poser is often worse than being an Ugly American.