It makes me want to stay in this beautiful country even more, so thanks for making me bitter to be leaving! I know that Scotland, as well as the city of Glasgow, will always have a soft spot in my heart, for the rest of my life. I can’t wait to share my amazing stories with my loved ones back home, but I also can’t wait to travel back to Europe, and visit places like China, Australia, and all over the US to visit all my wonderful friends I have made.

I can honestly say this is the best experience I have ever had in my life, and I know I will never have an opportunity like this ever again. I might have lost sleep, stressed out about the education system here, struggled to learn a language that I never knew existed, and even learn a new form of English all over again, but I have loved just about every minute. Even if some of the most heartbreaking days of my life have been while I’ve been here,  I can still say that I love this place.

If you ever question whether you should study abroad somewhere, especially somewhere that you know no one, you should take the chance and run with it. That is exactly what I did, and I am so happy I decided to do it, all for me.  And not only have I seen all over this wonderful country, but I’ve also seen England, Ireland, Italy, and France. Places that I never thought I would spend time in, and I did it all! Now I just have 4 hours left until my Scottish Literature final exam, and then time to cry with my flatmates until my taxi picks me up early in the morning :) haha

Basically, I love you Glasgow, I’m so glad we met, and you’ll always have a place in my heart, for the rest of my life :)

CHEERS!

First of all, let’s talk about Spanish. Not Spanish food, or Spanish people, though those will come later–first I want to talk about language. I came to Spain hell-bent on bettering my Spanish. That may seem obvious, but it’s not always the goal of students who study abroad. I chose to live with a host family so I could learn more colloquial language, I chose a program where classes were all taught in Spanish, and I decided that when I signed a contract at the start of the program saying I’d speak only Spanish I stuck to my guns and tried as best I could to avoid English at all cost. After weeks of frustration and, at times, discouragement, here I am in Barcelona feeling proud of my progress.

After this semester I’m convinced that learning a language is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn. My friend and travel compatriot Jennifer said something today that really struck me. “Language is so much more than just words,” she said, using her native English though we’ve been speaking a mix of Spanish and English (often in the same sentence…) this trip. That, I think, is what makes learning a second language so difficult. It’s also what makes it so rewarding. Technically, I learned Spanish in high school. I learned how to conjugate verbs, I memorized vocabulary lists, and I studied syntax. But in Spain I’ve learned a different Spanish, a Spanish that’s living and changing, quirky and irrational. I learned the Spanish that’s more than just words.

I learned “tacos” (bad words) from TV, movies, and walking in the streets. I learned phrases that just don’t translate to English–and use them with my Spanish-speaking friends when English just doesn’t cut it. I also learned a nice smattering of phrases that I might have to forget when I return to the Americas because they’re Spain-specific (look up the difference between the verb “coger” in Spain and in Mexico, for example).

Most interesting to me, though, is the way I change when I speak Spanish. It’s hard to put my finger on, but I’ve noticed a difference in my personality when I change languages. Apart from being a communication tool, language is also a mode of expression. The way I think of it, Spanish is a different channel I use to express myself. A different me comes out when I speak different words in different ways. I gesticulate more, use more dramatic sentence constructions, and tend to be more verbally empathetic. By “verbally empathetic” I mean that I respond more to who I’m talking to, whether that’s by echoing what they’re saying or adding sympathetic comments. I speak more creatively because I have to–if I don’t know how to say something, I have to describe it, and if someone doesn’t understand me I have to find a new way to say it.

Spanish has also changed the way I speak English, though mostly for the worse. Sometimes I joke that now I speak neither Spanish nor English. I find myself writing or saying words that I’m translating from Spanish to English that just don’t make sense, like “I’m assisting mass” or “I want a bar of bread” (“asistir” means “attend” in Spanish, and “barra de pan” means “loaf of bread”). Sometimes I want to use Spanish phrases or words because they seem to fit better, or sound better, or feel better. It’s a curious thing, and it’s hard to explain. There’s just something in words that you come to know when you speak them and hear them and study them, something caught between letters that you can’t translate. Discovering this phenomenon in Spanish has made me more aware of what lies in my own language, what rhythms and sentiments and connotations have been covered by years of unconscious use.

And, finally, I feel after these short four months that I can say with not-unreasonable confidence that yes, I speak Spanish. Sí, hablo español. If someone speaks to me, slightly different accent or no (experienced that in Sevilla), I can process with little difficulty what they’re communicating and I can respond without translating in my head. If I’m lost, I can ask for directions–though following them is always a different story. I can chat up someone in a bar or in the lobby of a hostel. I can mindlessly watch the news and eavesdrop on the bus.

Of course I would never say that I’ve mastered Spanish. I still make grammatical errors, get tripped up in my sentences, and have a pretty limited speaking vocabulary. And I still can’t roll my R’s. But I think I’ve jumped the first hurdle and am comfortable enough with this funny foreign language thing to move forward in fluency. Like I’ve said, learning Spanish has been frustrating, confusing, annoying, and tiring. It has also, however, been one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever undertaken. Despite what Rosetta Stone might try to tell you, languages are not useful travel tools or gold stars to put on your résumé.

Languages are the pulse of a culture and the heart of people. Languages unite and divide, threaten and comfort. They change and they change us. Spanish is now my second language, and learning it this semester has inspired me to keep learning. It has even inspired me to take on a third language, Portuguese, in the fall. Because at the end of the day, learning a second–or third, or fourth–language is always, as the Spanish say, “vale la pena.” What does that expression mean? Don’t plug it in Google Translate. Go find a Spanish speaker and have them explain it to you, or enroll yourself in a class and learn for yourself why the heck I just wrote over a thousand (English) words on my journey into the strange and incredible Pandora’s box of language learning.

Like I said though, we started in the village of Roquefort, home of the (in)famous blue cheese of the same name.  If you’ve never tried Roquefort cheese…don’t!  Haha.  No, I suppose if you’re already a fan of blue cheeses you might enjoy the moldy tang of this one too.

Just walking into the Papillon store before our tour was like walking into a bag of dirty socks- woof, it was so strong!  They then took us back to the caves to explain how they made the cheese.  They use sheep’s milk from the sheep in the area, which I thought was cool.  And then to get the blue specs that give Roquefort it’s signature taste, they inject this mold called penicillium roqueforti, which they get from letting bread mold until it turns blue.  Why would you ever think to eat blue moldy bread!?  We got to see a loaf of this blue molded bread just before we went up to the tasting! 

Part of our tour. You can see the wheel of cheeses in the background.

We were all scared to try it in the end.  I mean…look at it:

In fact, it wasn’t bad…at first!  And then you would bite into the blue moldy parts and it would send such a bitter taste that would take your entire mouth hostage.  Luckily I had a water bottle with me, but that one swig I took stunk up my water bottle for the rest of the day.  That stuff was STRONG, I tell you!

Even though the cheese wasn’t my favorite it was still fun hilarious going on this tour.

Then we were off.  We were originally going to go picnic around the Viaduc de Millau, an impressive bridge that crosses the valley of the river Tarn, but the weather had taken a turn for the wet and Cédric wanted to call it off.  We all begged him to let us at least drive over it, and he was kind enough to concede.  Tiny patches of blue even made a guest appearance as we crossed the valley, though it would have been incredible even if the sky remained solely melancholy.  The valley was so expansive and the mountains/hills/plateau? that surrounded us were just so lush and green. 

It reminded me of my trip to visit my brother in Oregon. Just driving around, my brother and I happened upon this rest stop where you could overlook the valley that the Columbia River runs through.  Neither of us could believe what an incredible view it was.  It was literally just overwhelming.  I felt like I had gone to another planet, beauty like this surely didn’t frequent earth.  And surely people didn’t know about this place or else the entire world population would be here constantly.  It would be on the news every night that you HAD to go witness this.  You can’t go your life and not see it.  I remember trying to capture its hugeness, its ability to humble you with only a single coup d’oeil with my camera.  Of course, this is all I got:

Portland, OR

But anyways, this valley of the River Tarn even though the river is barely visible, reminded me of the same majesty. 

We stopped for just 15 minutes at the end of the bridge to take pictures.  My friend, who is also a glutton for good views, and I decided to run up to the top of this hill where we could get a better view of the bridge and the valley.  It was great.  Of course we were the ones holding up the bus in the end, but it was well-worth the reprimanding glances.

Le Viaduc de Millau— one of the tallest bridges in the world!

The valley of the river Tarn

We next went to a Buddhist Temple.  The rain had come back and a deep fog had set in.  We were driving in the middle of nowhere and it was actually kind of creepy.  This is the point where the bus breaks down and ax murderer comes out of the woods- my friend noted.  Well just then of course the bus did stop.  HAHAHA.  We figured we could use the Roquefort that people had bought to ward off anyone though.  One unexpected wiff of that and you were down.  Haha.  Well the bus driver was just lost and we eventually found our way to the temple.  Of course we weren’t allowed to take pictures inside, but here are some of the outside.

We went inside and sat on cushions on the floor and listened to this guy talk about the temple and Buddhism in general.  Now, I was already fighting extreme sleepiness this entire day.  I was so inexplicably tired that even staying awake on the bus was a struggle.  But now we were sitting in this warm building with this guy talking in the quietest, calmest way possible and my eyes couldn’t help but close themselves.

The speaker’s microphone stopped working some half dozen times, and each time he slowly lowered one to the ground and just as slowly went to grab another one saying nothing about the matter.  Each time as calmly as the last.  I felt bad, but I had absolutely no means to wake myself up during this whole presentation.  Eventually I heard him say that he didn’t want to put us to sleep, and I really tried to perk up, but in reality all I wanted was to stretch out on these pillows and settle in for a nice long nap.

Avignon was an hour northeast of Montpellier by train.  There can you find the Palais des Papes, the temporary home of the papacy during the 14th century when Rome had grown too wild and wayward for the holy.  A friend of mine had greatly elaborated on the majesty of this church.  She explained that it was even more striking since she hadn’t seen pictures of the structure before witnessing it in real life.  Inspired by her tale, my friend and I had been avoiding pictures of the Palais des Papes weeks before our own day trip to Avignon.  It had gotten somewhat excessive, actually.  In class we had to avert our gazes when a powerpoint presentation included pictures of the palace.  So silly, but in the end, our eyes were still Palais des Papes virgins and we were ready to go and be impressed. 

When our train arrived in Avignon, however, we decided we should go see the Pont du Gard first just in case the bus system didn’t run later in the afternoon.  We walked the few minutes to the bus station and took the 40-minute ride to the Pont.  It was really cool to see a structure so old and still intact.  And it was huge.

 Old-school graffiti

We were able to hike around for a bit to see some different views.  Whenever I see something cool I always take a million pictures of it that look EXACTLY the same.  It’s a disease really.  I’ll take a picture and look at it: No, it doesn’t really look like that.  Maybe if I move two centimeters this way.  Hahaha, so silly.

Tunnel from 1865!

A few days after our day trip we were having dinner with our friend and her family who were in town to visit her.  They had also recently seen the Pont and I really liked her dad’s reaction to it: he found it incredible that there was so much sophistication and order in the Roman Empire as was symbolized by this aqueduct system; and that yet all this organization could go to ruin and leave the age of barbarians and complete chaos.  This hadn’t even crossed my mind, but it was pretty incredible when I thought about it that the impressive engineering and political feats of the Romans could cease to advance after the fall of the empire and that societies completely void of civility and reason could be left in its wake. 

After we had seen the Pont to our hearts content we made our way back to the bus stop so we could see the Palais des Papes back in Avignon.  There was no schedule listed at the stop, but there was a number that we called.  The news we received was less than ideal, however, as we learned the next bus wouldn’t be coming until 5:30 that evening!  It was then early afternoon and our train was leaving from Avignon back to Montpellier at 5.  Not only did this mean that we’d have to wait hours for the next bus, but that we would also be missing our train home.  (Sidebar of reason: there would in fact be later trains back to Montpellier that we could take if we did indeed decide to take the 5:30 bus back into town.  However, that would mean that we would have to wait 3 hours for the bus and that my friend would miss dinner with her host family since they eat early at 7:30 (my host family doesn’t eat until 8 or 9ish).) 

We didn’t know what to do so we just started walking.  I suddenly became aware of all the empty seats in cars that were driving in the direction of Avignon.  If only we could hitch a ride.  If only I had the courage to stick out my thumb in that international sign for faire-ing la stop.  There were elderly couples passing—they looked friendly!  I said I thought we could walk to the next town and ask if we could get a taxi, but my real plan was to work up the courage to hitch a ride before getting to town.  We were on a sidewalk at first, but we were eventually walking on the side of the road itself.  It wasn’t your scenic French countryside either and the weather had taken a grey melancholy turn.  We were on the side of a highly frequented road in the middle of nothing but a few vineyards here and there.  Finally we got to the closest thing to a town we’d seen so far.  It wasn’t really a town though, but an agglomeration of houses.  There was no place to ask about a taxi.  We did see a taxi driving by however, but in response to our wave to stop, he just waved back.

We’d been putting this off to save ourselves from embarrassment but we didn’t know what else to do, so we went ahead and called Cédric at the office to see if he could look up a cab number for us.  He didn’t even make fun of us haha, and he gave us the numbers.  He informed us that we were closer to Nîmes than to Avignon at this point and so it would be cheaper to get a cab back there.  Understanding that seeing the Palais des Papes in Avignon wasn’t in the cards for the day, we called the numbers Cédric had given us to get an estimate on a cab back to Nîmes.  But then the numbers only led to voicemails.  We’d seen people getting cabs back at the Pont though, so we decided we could just walk back and ask at the information desk there.  If all else failed, we could take the bus. 

So we began the walk back, somewhat disheartened.  Why had we walked all this way out here in the first place?  And then I thought I saw a wheat field in the distance that I grew illogically excited about.  I really wanted to take pictures of this wheat field, so we went down this side road.  As it turns out, the view I had had of the “wheat” was partially obstructed and it turned out that it was only a couple of cattails which I found less exciting.  On the way down this new road, HOWEVER, we ran into another bus stop!  It was headed towards Nîmes, where we decided we were trying to go anyways.  The schedule was listed and the next bus would be coming in 15 minutes—WOO!  No taxi or waiting hours for a bus!  We were saved and the ride back to Nîmes was really pretty.  We went through a small town and by several vineyards.

In the end, we made it back to Montpellier earlier than planned, but we never saw the Palais des Papes.  Here’s to shielding my eyes until we can make it back.

Eric and I agreed that Germany was the first country we’d been to where people actually live, where they do what they want and seem so normal, and aren’t as frail-looking as many of the French. Like, in Germany, you can sit down to eat dinner at four or five PM, and nobody is going to tell you you can only have drinks at that time of day. 

Cologne was clean and green, which reminded me a little of the Twin Cities in the summertime. However, the gluten-free options here are just as lacking as in Belgium. I can’t believe I ever complained about gluten-free awareness in the United States…

I’ll stop ranting about food issues now. 

We enjoyed a relaxing time in Cologne. We stayed with and got shown around by our very own German guide, Nathalie, who lived with my family in the U.S. for a few months. She brought us around the city, to the old Cathedral, and the Lindt Chocolate Museum. I think the chocolate museum was my favorite. It was so detailed and went into not only how chocolate is made at the factories, but how and where it grows, the history of chocolate, how chocolate is advertised…it was overwhelming, but in a good way. One of the best museums I’ve been to so far, in all of Europe. Plus, there was a part of the museum where you got to see a bunch of the machines, and watch them in action. It reminded me of Picture-Picture on Mister Rogers, which was the main reason I watched that show as a kid. 

The view of the Rhine from the gondola we took on our tour with Nathalie 

Oh, hello spring! 

Love locks 

The Dom

The train station–classic yet modern at the same time

The day after, Eric and I spent most of the day on a tour-boat on the Rhine. It was nice, and we mostly just looked out the window and read books while floating along. The boat went from Cologne to Linz and worked on a hop-on-hop-off basis for one day. We got off at Bonn, the old capital of West Germany. It was a smaller town than I was expecting, and we just wandered around the downtown area for a few hours. I enjoyed spending the day lazily riding down the river (it really was a lazy ride, it took us three hours to get to Bonn, when Nathalie said it would have taken twenty minutes by tram to get there). It cost thirty euros each though, so I’m not sure I would do it again…

I spent more time than I would have guessed at Starbucks on our trip to Germany. I never go there in the U.S., but sometimes it’s nice to have something familiar, especially when it has bathrooms and free wifi. Plus filtered coffee for Eric. 

I had a great spring break trip, but I’m glad to be back in Paris, which feels more like home to me than Montpellier has. I miss my friends though, who are off on their own adventures. I have to go back to Montpellier for two days to give presentations about papers I’m supposed to have written (oops, getting on that now!). 

As much as I’ve enjoyed traveling to different countries around Europe, I am so excited for my trip to London that’s coming up. Here are just three of many reasons: 

1. British accents
2. Gluten-free fish and chips (I checked, this exists!)
3. Platform 9 and 3/4 

A Bientôt! 

I remember the drive to the airport—I was purposely trying not to think of Minnesota. I remember getting out of the car and holding it together, only to hug Jane (our friend) goodbye, and starting to tear up silently. As I walked through that MSP Entrance door, I tried not to look back. We ate Taco Bell in the airport, bought shaving cream, gum, and waters. We arrived at the gate for Amsterdam, and it was filled with people—we didn’t have a place to sit.

I remember walking the streets of Amsterdam and thinking—this is the last time I will be in the developed world for around seven months. I remember we waited for about an hour in the train station not knowing what train to get on, spending almost $50 USD at Burger King for dinner, and taking a canal tour on which we couldn’t keep our eyes open. It was my last day in the world I’ve always known, the world I’ve always felt safe in; the world that looks like me and mostly speaks my language.

We arrived. Our safari driver picked us up. I remember gripping the arms of my chair so tightly as we drove to our first lodge—not used to the Tanzanian way of driving which includes passing head-on into oncoming traffic. I saw a guy peeing on the side of the road.

I remember our safari—my family all with me. The animals—the green haze of evaporating mist coming out of the crater—everyone craning their necks to see that one Cheetah.

I remember our final night together. We were in our rooms at Mhabe Farm, I was resting. Jessie and Cole came in and were talking about the upcoming year, and laughing at pictures we had taken. I remember the tears slowly filling my eyes, and in order to prevent the spill, I pretended like I had to go the bathroom. I sat in the bathroom, contemplating what I should do, while more tears kept coming–the fact of being separated for so long finally hitting me.

I remember the next morning—at the Machame gate, on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, waiting for my guide to tell me, “Let’s Go.” I remember the muddled prayer my dad attempted to say through tears, and hugging my family goodbye, unable to speak. I put my sunglasses on trying to hide my tears, turned around and didn’t look back. At the time, I simply couldn’t do it. I know my family was all there, waving at me—but if I even looked, I knew I would have to run back.

Four months have since passed, and I look back on all of those memories and realize how much stronger those moments made me—but it is yet another time for one of the most heart-wrenching goodbyes I could ever imagine. My study abroad experience is done. Friday is my last night with my host family—Saturday I leave by plane for Dar es Salaam and then bus onto Iringa to start my time with Cheetah Development. I am amazed at how fast the time has gone and how my life has changed.

In my whole life of twenty-one years, I have never met people of such genuine authenticity as that of my host family, my teachers, and all the Tanzanian people I have come to know and love. Thinking back on the last four months, I realize that my time here has been the best time of my life—the memories I have made here have been, to this point, the most amazing experiences I could ever have imagined having. I am blown away at how many things I have done and memories made. I wish I could make it last forever.

To even describe my feelings is impossible. I look at this family and love them as my own.

The funny thing about life here is that it is rare to see a “western” expression of love. Couples don’t hold hands, phrases like “I love you” are laughed about as a white person thing, and the overall emotional state of people seems repressed—probably because they don’t have time to reflect and get sad. But in full honestly, I’ve never been more emotional in my life. I’ve never looked at people with the same kind of love as I do today—on the eve of my goodbye, I am flooded with grief. Thoughts run through my head like, “Will I actually ever see these people again?” and, “Will any of these kids ever have the same chance in life as I have had?” “Will their standard of living ever improve?” “Will they make it?”

Because now I’m not just a tourist and I’m not just a student—I’m also a brother and a son. I have a mama and a baba, and a bibi, and a dada and three kaka’s. They are a part of me. I care about them like I do my American family. They aren’t just people that got paid to host me in their home—they are a deep and real and powerful part of my life. I want my Tanzanian siblings to go to college and beyond, I want them to be able to travel the world and see the wonders. I want them to learn and grow and become powerful advocates for their country and seek change and make change and never give up. I want them to have access to resources and people of influence so that they can have the opportunity to prosper and choose the paths they want for life.

And I don’t want to say goodbye.

But like the goodbye I had to say to my family, this one has a purpose. I sometimes think these intense feelings of love we get for other people—more pronounced at a goodbye—are powerful reminders of how blessed we are to have people in our lives who care so deeply about us. They remind me of what the whole point in this life is—and that is to love others for the sake of a God who loves us infinitely more than we could ever feel for anyone. It’s a reminder of that kind of love. And it reminds me to never take for granted a friendship or the relationship of a loved one. It also makes me want to go out into the world and meet every single person I possibly can, just for the sake of coming to love them and know them, and be a part of their daily life—the joys and the struggles.

The last four months have changed me—I’ve become sensitized to the world we never hear about. I’ve had many a rough night thinking of all the injustices facing the world’s most under-privileged peoples. I have been humbled by the joy that people live with, even amidst deplorable circumstances and living conditions. I honestly have not met one unhappy person in this country—Tanzanian smiles are genuine and radiate honest happiness. I have held children in my arms that are dying slowly of AIDS/HIV. I have seen the dirty hospital beds laboring mothers give birth on, in a room with no privacy. I have interviewed AIDS/HIV patients who have been stigmatized by society. I’ve seen firsthand how bribery and corruption destroy hope and justice—and foster dependence and defeatism.

Everyone on this planet has a story to tell. My time here has made me ask the question: Which stories are we listening to? The West is addicted to things that don’t matter. We listen to stories of greed, sex, power, sports, celebrities—while the stories of billions of hungry children and dying people go untold. We have isolated ourselves from the pain and suffering in the world in a way to numb our feelings to things that “don’t affect us” things that “aren’t our problem.” We have generations of children growing up addicted to video games, TV’s, and credit cards, who get passionately mad when their NFL team loses but feels nothing for their sick and starving counterpart in India, Tanzania, Haiti, or maybe right down the road.

Living in this country for the last four months has shattered that numbness for me. I have seen the real world—and my time living in it is not yet over. Living here has also shown me how blessed I am. So this goodbye is also a call to action for me—a call to action to make people care. Had I never come to Tanzania, I never would be feeling these intense emotions. I would never have come to love as much as I now do and can. And I wouldn’t be so bothered by these real problems. But I am glad I have been bothered. I want the world to get bothered. Not bothered about opening up their checkbooks and pouring in money—no no no. I want people to get bothered to go and see it and to go and live in it. We need to go and make friendships with people so different than ourselves, to open up our homes to the poor, to comfort starving children in our arms. To be honest, you don’t even have to go far. I think we have forgotten that nearly 20% of the U.S. population is living off of food stamps right now—and millions of lonely senior citizens are crying for love and attention in nursing homes. Mothers and fathers even in our own country are starving themselves in order to feed their children, and there are people everywhere around us who just want a friend to tell their story to. We don’t need to necessarily open up our wallets—we need to open up our hearts.

This world is so wide and so vast that isolating ourselves gives us comfort. We settle down and change becomes inconvenient to us. Changing up the way we live, changing who we hang out with, who we talk with, who we befriend isn’t comfortable.

But I have discovered living here, that the best life is the life lived without that comfort. It starts by thrusting yourself out there into the unknown and unfriendly. To take the first step onto that bus or plane leaving behind everything. To say the words, “I love you,” first and to embrace your own weaknesses. It’s about vulnerability. The more vulnerable we are the more love we open ourselves up to feeling. The more chances we take not knowing the end result, the more satisfying the end is. I don’t mean to preach at anyone—but we honestly have to just go out there and do things. It’s one thing to throw money at problems—it’s a whole new step when you go to explore it for yourself, and get down and dirty in the thick of it. It’s about putting everyone else before yourself and realizing that real power and real leadership and real happiness comes from giving your advantages, your possessions, your time, love, your LIFE for the sake of others.

At the end of my life I won’t remember the fancy cars I owned or the amount of money in my bank account. I will instead remember the times I stepped off into the unknown and just went out and did things. I will remember the moments of vulnerability, and all the love I gained from it. And in the context of the last four months I will remember so many things in those days.

I will remember my mountain climbing porters—and all the good times we shared. I will remember their kindness and encouragement as they gave me energy, knowledge, and empowerment to make it to Uhuru Peak, the top of Kilimanjaro.

I will remember the hotel staff that befriended me and invited me out to their homes for dinner—after just three days of my stay.

I will remember Natalie and Sadie arriving—now leaving for home as some of my closest friends.

I will remember the AIDS/HIV babies I held and spoon fed—and their happy smiles and innocent eyes, just asking to be held and loved.

I will remember Shedrack, my host brother. Words can’t describe how much I love that little guy. It’s not worth trying. It just is—the hardest goodbye.

I will remember the teachers I had here, who called me their son and treated me as one too.

I will remember the sunburn of Zanzibar and Tanga—along with the long nights on the beach hearing the ocean and seeing the stars, thinking about the magnitude of this place we call Earth.

I will remember walking through villages and gaping at the utter poverty surrounded by incredible natural beauty and thinking, “How is this possible?”

I will remember planting trees on the slopes of Mt. Meru, followed up by lunch at my professor’s house where he proceeded to tell all the local children assembled that the world was theirs for the taking—filling them with hope and worth, purpose and desire to better their lives.

I will remember washing dishes with my mama, and realizing just this past week how much I am going to miss that time with her even when it’s in complete silence because of the language barrier.

I will remember EVERYTHING.

In my second blog post, I wrote something that I think can define the last four months for me. Really something that can define every day, past, present, and the future. So for the sake of ending where I began, with a few edits, here it is again:

They have given me something so much greater than I have given them and I can’t even articulate it in words to all of you, because it’s sort of an indescribable feeling. It’s the feeling that you are worthy, and deserving of honest and pure love and friendship no matter where you are from, no matter what the color of your skin is, no matter how rich or how poor you are—that is what they have given me, and I love them all so much. They just jump into friendship…

For what it is worth, these moments have taught me more about what it means to be human than a lot of things in my life. You are prepared for a lot before you come over here—they immunize you, they tell you not to give away your money or worry about the starving children on the side of the road… but what they don’t tell you is how much love you are going to feel from some of the most simple acts, from witnessing and being a part of their lives, from living amidst their storms. And its moments like those that make me feel so good to be alive, and to witness part of the struggles they  face, and in the name of love to help where I can. We are all human—don’t let anyone tell you love is hard to find. It is everywhere.

I am so in love with this country, with my friends, teachers, and with this family. I have been welcomed everywhere I go. I have seen smiles come from the darkest of places and though my anger at the injustice people live in is real, I also smile with joy at how these beautiful people take on life. On the eve of saying goodbye it’s another one of those unknown, vulnerable moments, with the pain of leaving overwhelming me. But I know everything is going to be ok, and I promise myself to return “home” one day.

People say that “love” is an overused word. For me however, I can’t say it enough. To my Tanzanian family, teachers, school, friends, and everyone I have had the privilege to meet and know over the last four months:

I will remember this love you gave me, forever.

Defiantly in love from Africa, -Austin

Both are pretty good. 

Eric and I decided to visit the land of chocolate, waffles, and fries over our spring break. It was a quick train ride from Paris, a mere hour and twenty minutes on a spacious train with outlets in case you need to charge your electronics. I guess Thalys trains (which operate between Paris, Amsterdam, Brussels, and Cologne, and maybe a few other places too) are a little fancier than SNCF ones. The first thing I noticed about Brussels was that it is apparently the place to get your hair cut. There are so many hair salons in that town, and I was regretting the fact that just a few days before Brussels, I’d coughed up fifty euros for a haircut in Paris, when I could have saved a bunch in Belgium. 

 Another thing about Brussels is that it is pretty touristy, especially at the Grand Place, a cobblestoned square with fancy buildings huddling around it. Near that area, there are countless chocolate shops, waffle stands, and friteries, needless to say, the city smells wonderful. It was nice to walk around the Grand Place, but I think I preferred the time Eric and I spent ambling through other quiet neighborhoods. 

The buildings in Brussels and the surrounding neighborhoods, like Saint-Gilles, where we stayed, are really neat. There is a colorful hodgepodge of old, narrow buildings all scrunched up next to each other. I think these buildings were my favorite sights in Belgium. 

A street in Brussels

“Carefree School” 

It was chilly and rainy most of the time we there, so we did a few indoor activities. I looked up what there was to do, and found the Natural History museum, which supposedly has one of the biggest collections of dinosaurs in Europe. It was a fun museum, with plenty of dinos and even a narwhal skeleton, and of course lots and lots of Belgian children. They must have been speaking Flemish, because I didn’t understand anything they were saying. 

RAWR.

That’s another funky thing about Brussels, and Belgium in general. Everything is written in French, English, and Flemish, and there was a lot less French there than I imagined there would be. 

We also visited the Parlementarium, which is a museum all about the European Union, of which Brussels is the capital. It was a futuristic museum, with dim lights and glowing exhibits and these fancy audio guides that you buzzed at every station to receive new information. Very high-tech. It was at the Parlementarium where I found some gluten-free chocolates, at the café. Chocolate is tricky, and there’s always label-reading involved to make sure it’s not contaminated or sprinkled with bits of gluten. We visited the chocolate shop where the king supposedly gets his chocolates, but unfortunately those contained gluten. 

Eating was tricky in Brussels. I ended up eating a lot of French fries, because they were the only things that were safe, since they’re fried by themselves. I did enjoy them, especially with the special sauce, which is ketchup, mayo and fresh onions. But I was getting a bit tired of them by the end of the brief trip. Since chocolate and waffles were out, I wasn’t left with much of an option for famous Belgian food (yes, we did have mussels). The Belgians aren’t very aware of food allergies and sensitivities, it seems. I’ve noticed that the majority of Europe is still way behind when it comes to this issue, especially with gluten-free. They seem to be just grasping the idea of vegetarianism, and lactose intolerance, but they’ve got a long, long way to go, especially compared with the U.S. So although I really did enjoy visiting Brussels, it was frustrating trying to find restaurants that knew what gluten-free meant, especially since we weren’t able to cook full-fledged meals where we stayed. 

Fresh frites from Maison Antoine. Enjoyed by tourists and locals alike, and worth the line. 

Eric’s gluten-y waffle

Vacations are made more stressful than I would like what with the extra preparation I have to do in order to be well-fed, and a lot of the time, I come home feeling sick anyway. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough. Needless to say, I am looking forward to getting home to the U.S. so I can cook, and so I can go out to eat at a restaurant that serves something gluten-free that isn’t an omelette (aka, can’t wait for variety again. I’m a spoiled American.) 

Overall, Brussels was cool, but I don’t think I would go back. Stay tuned for a post about Cologne, Germany, which Eric and I visited after Brussels!

 A Bientôt!

I only heard about the news yesterday morning, as I actually returned from Zanzibar Monday evening. We were fortunate to have two days off on our schedule—so we thought a quick weekend trip to Zanzibar was in order. We flew Thursday from Kilimanjaro to Zanzibar and returned Monday night for a whopping $60 U.S. dollars—yes, you read that correctly. A roundtrip air ticket for 60 bucks! Beats the day long bus ride and ferry by a long shot.

Anyway, Zanzibar was nothing short of incredible—for those of you who don’t know, Zanzibar consists of three Islands off the coast of mainland Tanzania. Zanzibar forms a political union with mainland Tanzania, formerly called Tanganyika, creating the United Republic of Tanzania. Prior to independence in the early 1960’s, Zanzibar was a former Omani Sultanate controlled by the royal Omani family way up on the Arabic peninsula–under British colonial administration. While it has been a part of the Tanzanian Union for almost 50 years, it still feels like a totally different country, and the Zanzibaris make sure you know that.

There are two main differences I noticed. First, Zanzibar is at a higher level of development than mainland Tanzania. This is due to a number of different factors. For starters, Zanzibar is a former global trading powerhouse—it was once the center of all East African trade, having trade routes that stretched through the heavy Congolese rainforests to the coast of Angola, as well as many other places in East Africa. It once also produced 4/5ths of the world’s spices and cloves. It served as the missionary base for expeditions into Eastern Africa, as well as a major slave market throughout the late 1800’s. This all was happening while over in mainland Tanzania (Tanganyika back then) there was tribal warfare, followed by small regional kingdoms, and finally a hands off colonial administration under the British. So essentially Zanzibar is YEARS ahead of the mainland.

The second thing I noticed was the people. For the first time since my arrival, I did not feel like a novelty. On the mainland, almost everywhere I go, people’s eyes follow. I walk down the street and people stop what they are doing to just watch me–and then the little children run by yelling, “Muzungu!” (white person). In Zanzibar, it was like I was just a normal person. Of course, people still tried to sell me stuff, but I could actually walk past a group of kids playing soccer and they wouldn’t stop their game to stop and stare. It was a very refreshing feeling. Also, the vendors are much less aggressive. After saying NO once, they back off, whereas on the mainland–at least in Arusha–I almost have to push them away to get away haha. I attribute this difference to Zanzibar’s familiarity with tourism and an overall multi-cultural atmosphere. There are Europeans, Asians, Indians, African, Arabians, everywhere–and its history shows that. So I must admit–it was a nice change of pace.

Besides that we have been mostly busy wrapping up our semester. I cannot believe that my time here at TCDC, my school, will be ending next Friday already! Where has the time gone?? I leave for Iringa, in the southern highlands on the 27th, to begin my volunteer internship with Cheetah Development. When I told my Tanzanian mama that I would be leaving next Saturday, she didn’t believe me, and I’m facing a barrage of pleas from my younger host brother Shedrack not to leave. I will admit that next Saturday is going to be a very bittersweet day–I don’t want to say goodbye to my amazing family. I love them all so much. It is going to be another “Goodbye to my Family 2.0.”

I was invited out to dinner tomorrow with Happy and Eli–the two hotel kitchen staff members that invited me out to their homes when I stayed with them for a week before my program began. I think I will go and get in a farewell–saying goodbye to some of my first two Tanzanian friends. Then this Saturday we were invited to one of our teachers homes to go plant trees with his mountain community. The goal is to plant 1,500–so that will be fun. Then we are taking a last minute trip to town to buy a few last goodies, Sunday I will try to go to church here in the morning and then we are having a “Nyama Choma” (barbecue) with our teachers on Sunday.

The next week is going to be so busy as it has finally hit us that for the first time since arriving, next Saturday marks the end of our time together. Natalie goes to Europe to meet up with her family, and Sadie will begin a month of independent travel throughout the country, while I move on to Iringa.

I want to thank you all for your support and prayers up until now. My life has been changed in so many ways, and I attribute so much of the strength I have as a result of such a solid group of supporters and stakeholders back home. I will probably be posting one more time before I leave next week–perhaps more of a tribute to the last four months rather than a typical update. I am so unspeakably grateful to the people I have met so far and how much love and life they have poured into my own.

As hard as it is to say farewell, I know it will all be ok… because I have cleverly designed my return flight to the U.S. to leave from Kilimanjaro International Airport, instead of Dar, which will force me to come back up here in early August. So everyone is expecting me to pop my head in one last time before leaving for home.

Changes of note include:

• The biggest thing was readjusting to Minnesota time, which took about 5 days. Being awake until 5 a.m. is never a great time, but it was reassuring to see all my Australia friends logged on to their Facebooks in the middle of the night too. 
• Driving on the right side of the road – I worried about this for nothing, piece of cake!
• Walking on the other side of the sidewalk. Still haven’t quite gotten that out of my system – I am constantly that annoying person coming at you when you’re walking who can’t figure out why you’re giving me a dirty look.
• The confusion when I say “Melbourne” or “Brisbane” [this one doesn't make sense unless you've actually heard me say it, but I will hopefully never say it the American way again]
• Adapting to the fact that there was a blizzard the day after I came home – thanks for the welcome, Minnesota!

2. Never buy the umbrellas or bracelets or socks or anything else people try to sell you on the streets. Most of the men work for the mafia and the things they sell really suck. Now, it is going to be hard to ignore them since they will probably literally run after you yelling “umbrelli, umbrelli”, just do your best. No being Minnesota Nice!

3. Always wear comfy shoes. You know, like the ones with good support and everything. Rome is huge and you will be forced to use your legs to see anything. I know, exercise sucks. 

4. Use your common sense and take precautions like watching your purse and don’t keep your valuables in your pockets (guys, I’m talking to you here). Also, please don’t be THAT guy who wears his bag on his stomach. It is like plastering a big flashing neon sign on your forehead that says “Hi, I’m a tourist! In this backpack I defiantly have a lot of money and a credit card, probably valuables like a phone and cameras and maybe, if you are lucky, my original passport!” 

5. Try to keep your bills tiny, since even though the ATMS only spit out 50 Euro bills, shopkeepers will grumble and make a huge scene if you try to pay for your 2 Euro café with a 50 Euro bill. I mean, I guess it makes sense.

6. Expect the buses to be late. Actually, expect travel to always be unpredictable, so don’t get to wrapped up with a detailed schedule since odds are something will be running late and screw it all up. On the subject of transportation, invest in a 3 or 7 day pass since you need to take transportation to get anywhere. Don’t lie to yourself by pretending you can walk it all to save a few Euros.

7. A pizza should cost about 7 Euros, a little coffee should be around 1 Euro. If anyone tries to charge you more, run away. Also, in Italy, it is normal for people to eat a whole pizza by themselves, so embrace the culture, forget your diet and eat up!

8. Buy your ticket to the Colosseum at the entrance at to the Roman Forum down the street. Everyone gets off the metro and becomes overwhelmingly distracted by the Colosseum loaming over them and runs right there only to stand in line for years. The ticket you buy allows you to enter both the Colosseum and Roman Forum, so it is worth your time to start at the Forum to avoid a bit of the crowd at the ticket office.

9. Eat as much fresh stuff as possible. In America, all the fresh stuff is expensive, but in Italy produce is the best around and cheap to boot! Take your time to pop into a market to at least get some fresh mozzarella.

10. Always keep a map on hand since you will get lost about 20 times each day. Heck, I even still get turned around from time to time and I’ve been here for 3 months!

11. Book a hotel or hostel near a metro stop, preferably near Termini the main bus station. Don’t be the fool who thinks booking a hotel that is “just 30 minutes from the city center” and is 30 Euros cheaper is worth it. These hotels are usually by the airport and it takes a good hour to get to the center from them. And that is if you are in a taxi and there is no traffic. Cough up a bit more money to actually enjoy your time here. Nobody wants to spend their entire trip commuting form the sites to their hotel.

Now, come to Rome and have fun! :)

1. Church bells go off every hour, but at strange times such as 12:17 or 9:43.

2. You can sit on a piazza with your friends and a pitcher of beer at 11:30 on a Saturday night and the people walking past you range from tiny kids who look a bit lost to really old people who also look a bit lost. Then to really kick up the weirdness, that piazza has a huge statue in the middle that looms over the bars full of drunk people to remind you that once, way back when, the Romans used the space burn people to death or chop their heads off.

3. Transits strikes are a thing here. You know, when the bus and tram and metro drivers decide they aren’t going to work and the whole city kind of shuts down. But they only strike on Fridays, and not one of those Fridays has been bad weather. Sneaky Sneaky. I see what you are doing there.

4. It takes just about the same about of time to get to the beach as it does to get to school.

5. Spring is just skipped over entirely. It goes right from winter to summer within a few days.

6. When the water to your apartment gets shut off without warning on a sunny 75 degree day after you spent all morning wandering around Roma for your class and all you want is a cold class of water, but your school tells you “Oh yeah, well, sometimes they just turn off the water without telling you. It might come back on soon”. Great.

7. The beggars only beg on warm sunny days, never when it is raining.

8. The second the weather gets nice, the entire city explodes with tourists and you start to develop not just a dislike but a strong hatred towards the people who are overcrowding your city since getting anywhere takes 5 times longer thanks to the amount of people that walk slow because they don’t know where they are going. I just gotta get to class people!

The major success of my departure is this:

Day one we got up at 3am and took at taxi to the bus which took us to the airport and then to another bus to get to the Dublin city centre for the day. We spent most of the day at the Guinness factory and wandering around town. Later we took the four hour bus to Cork, which we didn’t enjoy too much. We ended up at a very bad hostel and had a bad experience in which we called the guard (cops) to come the the hostel because there were people fighting and screaming outside.

After arguing with the front desk, we got half our money back and called a taxi to bring us to the best western in the “posh” part of town (according to the taxi driver). The new hotel, not hostel, was super nice and had a pub that we got a drink at to relax after the insane hostel with blood splatter on the bunk bed… In the morning we headed out to blarney after a baileys and coffee and kissed the Blarney Stone! The castle grounds were super beautiful, it was sunny, I didn’t need my jacket, and we got to make a wish on the wishing steps hidden away in the far side of the grounds! It was so much fun and so beautiful! We then took a bus back to town, grabbed another coffee and then headed back to Dublin.

Right after checking into the Holiday Inn Express we went out to dinner and drinks at The Parnell Heritage Pub which was awesome! Three guys playing instruments playing Irish music and I enjoyed their delicious Parnell Sour! We headed back to the hotel near bar close around 1230 and hung out until we went to sleep. Up again around 9am this morning we had a nice relaxing day in Dublin. We started out visiting the trinity college library and then to St. Patrick’s cathedral where we sat in the park and enjoyed an hour or two of people/toddler/puppy watching on a bench in the sun!

We then took our time and walked to the Jameson distillery to shop the souvenirs and had a glass of ginger, lime, and whiskey. Then we decided to stock up on gifts at an Irish store as well as stop at the temple bar which was pretty packed for 6pm! We had an early night afterwards, I got Subway and we went back to the hotel around 730 just to relax, watch videos, and laugh! Now it’s off to sleep so that we can get up for our 830 boarding on Ryanair (last Ryanair flight hopefully forever!!!).  As of today it is two and a half weeks until my flight home! Super excited but also sad to be leaving my friends and life in Glasgow behind!

Beluga whale being fed

Mammal show

Table 1

Maple almond pecan pie!