Black Swan Fall 2018

Fall 2018 Volume 19 1

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor / Allison Caravella

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A Study on Religion / Karrington Brown

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Statue in Berlin / Paige Freeman

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Paris / Raeanne Szydlo

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Below / Raeanne Szydlo

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From the London Eye / Raeanne Szydlo

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Cake for the Boys and Girls that Get Answers: Write on multiple choice tests good B’s and C’s Never D’s / Alexa Barton

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Lauterbrunnen / Paige Freeman

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Giants / Bianca D’Antonio

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Garbage Haunted Atlantis / Sofia Murzin

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Flooding in Venice / Paige Freeman

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Mems / Sofia Murzin

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Muninn auf HĂśllentalferner / Alex Hahn

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A Lot Happened Last Night / Charleigh Triaga

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Castle Is Where the Heart Is / Henry Black

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London / Paige Freeman

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Chapters / Helene Graham

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Berlin Cathedral - Berlin, Germany / Aya Faham

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Science in the Sky / Alex Hahn

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Fleeting / Cate Hayes

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MĂźnchner Haus / Alex Hahn

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untitled in athens, or not-lebanon, or something that feels like memory / Abigail Hadfield

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Den Haag / Nicole Salvatore

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Highway Hikes, Wild Boars, and Underground Rivers / Emma Lopez

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alley cat (Bruges, Belgium) / Sam Willinger

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On the Hunt for the Prime Meridian or Greenwich Foot Tunnel / Alex Hahn

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Kasteel Well, Fall 2018 / Jess Costas

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Zugspitze Klimaforschungsstation / Alex Hahn

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Tourism Causing Problems for Amsterdam’s Red Light District / Allison Payne

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Toone / Raeanne Szydlo

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the timid & tough / Charleigh Triaga

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Liebe Siegestor / Alex Hahn

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The Eyes - The Hague, South Holland, The Netherlands / Aya Faham

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Amsterdam / Raeanne Szydlo

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Love is Us / Jessica Costas

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Alan / Harvey Kelley

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Our Crib - Well, Limburg, The Netherlands / Aya Faham

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Dulcia - A Lady with a Legacy / Sam Willinger

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Letter from the Editor This semester, our time at Kasteel Well was filled with unforgettable memories. We built a sense of community within the castle walls while exploring and interacting with new cultures. The Black Swan Magazine has become a physical manifestation of our time here.

We will always be able to look back and remember what it was like to travel Europe. It is also a way to leave our mark. The Fall 2018 castle dwellers will remain here in this little book for years to come.

I want to personally thank everyone who took time to submit to the magazine. In addition, I want to thank our amazing Black Swan team and especially our advisor Robbert. This was a short semester, but we managed to pull it off!

If you’re reading this as a new castle dweller after we have gone, buckle up. You’re in for an amazing adventure. Keep reading if you want to know what our time at the castle was like. Make sure to put yourself out there and try things that scare you. Go skydiving, try that food, and say “yes” to new experiences. From our magazine, you’ll learn how we explored Europe. Our time here has gone by far too fast. Make sure you make yours count! Thanks for reading this little piece of Fall 2018.

—Allison Caravella, Editor In Chief

5

A Study on Religion Karrington Brown

I lost my Religion the day I left Catholic school. It felt like a shedding of some skin, like a snake, like the Devil that tempted Adam and Eve. The stories I’d been fed my entire life of miracles and martyrs seemed like fiction once I’d finally made it into the real world. The world that wasn’t sheltered by the idea of Religion. The odd thing was that I never felt it leave me—it watched and waited.

Religion watched as I sinned my way through high school. Parties and boys and drugs took the place of Mass and Jesus and Communion. I drank wine like it truly was the blood of Jesus and thought nothing of him in the process. Religion watched as depression dug its claws into me. It sat silently by as depression became my new god whom I worshipped every night in the holy place of my bed. It didn’t provide comfort as I would beg for some sign that things would be okay, that I would be okay. Religion didn’t seem to care. Religion watched as I publicly announced my separation in an essay meant to be sent to colleges. It watched as I talked about why I left and why I’d never come back. Religion watched as I ran away to art school, the furthest I could get from it. It watched as the school offered me a chance out of America, watched as I eagerly accepted any chance I could to leave.

Religion watched as I flew above the Atlantic to some faraway country. It watched as I couldn’t sleep on the plane ride because I was too excited. It watched as I passed by prostitutes beckoning customers from red lit windows. Watched as I drunkenly wandered down an alley full of clubs yelling in a terrible British accent with my friends. Watched as I forgot about it.

Religion watched as I cried on a train in some city in Belgium.

Watched as I took the wrong way home. I ran around a dozen different cities in the Netherlands trying to find any way to get home before midnight, it didn’t work. I got stuck miles and miles away for the night. Watched as I sat

Statue in Berlin Paige Freeman

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in a hotel room trying to figure my own way back, without its help. Eventually, an option came about, an early train to make it to my early class. It watched as I exhaustedly fell onto my bed and slept the whole day when I finally got home, forgetting about the class entirely.

Religion followed me through every foreign church I visited: St. Stephen’s Basilica, Basilica of Saint Servatius, Basilica of the Holy Blood.

Watched as I admired the art and stained glass that can only be found in a centuries-old place of worship. I wandered through the pews, looking at the artifacts that each church claimed it had. One, the blood of Jesus on a cloth, though we were not allowed to see it, it was a huge attraction. Religion was all about believing rather than seeing; tourists didn’t usually feel the same. There were golden arches surrounded by brightly colored artwork of scenes straight out of the Bible in nearly every cathedral we visited. Religion watched me light a prayer candle for my family without truly praying in all of them, judged me for using it as a comfort rather than what it was for.

Watched me wonder what I would be like now if I still believed in the sanctity of the church, wonder what I would’ve thought of Religion had I grown up in a church like this: pretty, big, and holy.

Religion watched as I discovered our hostel in London was empty before we could check in. It watched as we walked to a closed McDonald’s and begged to be let in so we could find somewhere to stay. “This is the bad part of town,” the McDonalds manager had told us. “What are you doing here?” The forty minute bus ride into the city the next day made me ask myself the same question over and over again. It watched as we cried and called hotels who were all full. It watched as men tried to lure us into their cars while we waited for our Uber. Our driver had told of us prostitutes on the street beside us while he took the wrong turn. We thought we were going to die. Maybe Religion is why a hotel was finally available. Maybe it was Religion or maybe it was the dumb luck that only tourists get. But that night, in the small twin bed of the hotel, Religion wrapped its ghostly arms around me, providing no warmth.

Religion watched as I begged for it to come back. It watched as I prayed to it as if it were some lost ancestor. It waited and let me get to the point of desperation. Let me have more moments of fear than someone should. I had terrible anxiety and Religion was well aware; it preyed on that.

It let me panic and panic and panic. Religion watched like a hawk, ready to strike, ready to come back. When it tried, in a big golden church in London, I didn’t let it. I don’t know what stopped me from accepting Religion into my life again. Maybe it was it was never really there in the first place. Maybe it was because it was there but had never helped, so I said no to its grand return. Maybe I had never known Religion like Catholic school told me I did.

Maybe it never knew me.

When I’m truly afraid I still pray to a Religion that I’d lost years ago.

It provides a nostalgic comfort, that though I left it, it would never leave me.

I pray to Religion for selfish reasons, only in times where I feel true fear.

When I miss a train or am harassed by men, I call to it, expect it to be there for me like it once was. I was once called the luckiest person that my friend knew. I wonder if that was Religion guiding me by hand through life. I wonder if Religion let go of my hand, or I of its.

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Paris

Raeanne Szydlo Mona Lisa did not frown for me like I hoped.

Instead, she smirked at all who beat and thrashed for her most written infamy.

Her soulless, strange visage was no match for the reaper fools below; masked hauntings from beauty above.

Missed mirrors left stranded in a station empty of direction, a million ways to one destination.

Where from here?

Below

Raeanne Szydlo 11

From the London Eye Raeanne Szydlo

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Cake for the Boys and Girls that Get Answers: Write on multiple choice tests good B’s and C’s Never D’s Alexa Barton Who kept their side of knowledge covered under a sleeve The length of fabric that was never enough to cover up the peer pressure It dug into her, sucked like a biting leech A blood vengeance it would seek Drop your current idealization of your mother For the girl that acts like her Let apart your fist and allow viceral thoughts to the surface Embrace the violence in their images Get in a fist fight with a misplaced wall Show it who’s boss Tears.

Gemini break the rules of celibacy —Should have guessed— Socialization of inadequacy among unintelligent preteens They thought they could be kings Stars of their corners of the universe Univision is not a virtual expression It is a telaportive time warp Don’t get stuck.

Calling you back like a sorry ex boyfriend It's been years since we have seen you Your trip in 20 seconds

Put to a melodic cliche Thanks Obama!

Glad that trip is better than our Current politĂ­ca Aficionado Bravo to foreign affairs We have never been more feared But towering near Is a California mother's worst fear A politician with something up his rear Make assumptions and Further live in contradiction of them

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Lauterbrunnen Paige Freeman

Giants

Bianca D’Antonio as we wind through mountains, skimming the soil, I see from the mist the arm of a giant, puncturing the barrier between earth and sky, swinging low. he reaches for something— perhaps to pluck gold and bronze from their copper branches, or thread a needle through the grass— but all his hand grasps is wind, and he returns up his beanstalk to his castle of fog to dine on the breeze and contemplate what might have been if his arm could have reached just a little further.

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Garbage Haunted Atlantis Sofia Murzin

A little boy in rain boots splashes through the overflowing waters of the Grand Canal in Venice, Italy. To his delight, he discovers a floating plastic water bottle: a plaything. He grabs it and amuses himself by filling it and draining it until his father notices what his son has been up to. He rushes over, scolds the boy, scoops him up, and tosses the bottle back into the canal.

I arrived in Venice the day after the city experienced the highest flooding recorded in a decade, according to local authorities. Although, my gondolier claimed that he had never seen such flooding in his life. Kiosks were selling plastic boots for tourists who were plodding knee-deep through the flooded streets, saving their suitcases by holding them above their heads.

Eventually, a maze of platforms was raised throughout the flooded island.

Luckily, as we arrived, the rain stopped and the flooding mostly receded.

Only the Grand Canal spilled over onto the street with the high tide, we could easily navigate around that. The aftermath of the flooding was evident though, with shopkeepers throwing buckets of water out their doors and mopping up mud and trash left behind by the water.

Venetian water is turquoise blue and the canals were just as beautiful as I imagined them to be, so of course, the first thing we did upon arriving in Venice was hop on a gondola. We weaved through the maze of canals and ducked under picturesque bridges. I noticed the pastel colors of the façades of the centuries-old buildings, the intricate golden designs on the gondolas, and the trash floating by us. After the fifth cluster of plastic waste floated by, I couldn’t help myself, I pointed it out to our gondolier. He shrugged and explained that when the flooding receded, trash was washed into the canals with it. I asked him if there are any efforts being made to clean it up. He turned down the corners of his mouth and answered with a wave of his hand, “si, si, we clean.” Somehow, I don’t believe him.

To Venetians, flooding or acqua alta used to be a normal phenomenon caused by occasional storm surges or high winds, but in recent years, rising with the waters is a sense of alarm. Venice is sinking and Venetians know it. Barriers along the Venetian Lagoon are being built, but the project has been delayed so many times since it’s launch in 2003 that it has yet to be completed. Some Italians are even protesting the project due to its high costs and the potential threat to the lagoon’s ecosystem, according to Wired.com.

For now, while the effects of the sinking can still be somewhat ignored, it seems that the general climate around Venice’s impending fate is acceptance.

The same passive attitude applies towards littering in Venice. We witnessed people throwing cigarettes and plastic water bottles into the canals without a thought and carelessly kicking aside or stepping over garbage that lined the streets. Most of this litter washed away with the receding floods into the canal. I began tracing the path of all of this garbage, from the ground of the streets, into the canals, out into the Adriatic Sea and beyond. How much, I wondered, did Venice contribute to growing trash islands? How many sea turtles have tried to eat plastic bags that came from these shops?

These are morbid thoughts to have on vacation in Italy, but the problem was almost impossible to ignore.

The image of that little boy playing with litter he fished out of the canal is powerful to me. Is this the image of our future? Will my children be accustomed to litter to the point of indifference? Will my children even have the opportunity to see Venice, or will it become a modern day, garbage haunted Atlantis?

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Flooding in Venice Paige Freeman

Mems

Sofia Murzin The next time “Dancing Queen” plays on the radio, I’ll be at the crowded bar down the street from the castle, arms stretching towards my smiling friends dancing on the pool table.

When I spill out my Christmas stocking and discover a piece of chocolate, I’ll be peering through a Lindt store window in Switzerland, mouth watering at the arrangement of gold, silver and red foil covering a variety of treats yet to be tasted.

The next time I rush down Boylston Street headwinds, I’ll be making my way along the treacherous and windy edge of the Cliffs of Moher, trying to comprehend the sheer magnitude of where I stand.

The next time my dad has a beer and I catch a whiff, I’ll be shouting Prost! at Oktoberfest surrounded by dancing girls dressed in Dirndls and singing men wearing Lederhosens.

When I notice a yellow dandelion peeking through the cracked pavement, I’ll be decorating my friend’s Dutch braids with colorful wildflowers picked from the magnificent Swiss Alps.

I can show the pictures and share the stories, but no one will feel it the same way I did.

I’ll feel it for myself.

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Muninn auf Hรถllentalferner Alex Hahn

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A Lot Happened Last Night Charleigh Triaga

7:30 PM. On the train to Rome, a Viennese man helps Nahaira lift her luggage in to the overhead storage shelf. This suitcase is twice her size and holds a Ripley’s Record. It doesn’t fit in the shelf and I’m a little freaked out that it’s going to fly forward and knock Hannah’s teeth out. We say thank you and go about our business.

9:30 PM. The Viennese man shows us how to adjust the seats, which merge into one, bed-like block. This would be an excellent idea if 4’ 9” was the average height, but it’s not, so we’re all smushed together in a weird orgy none of us wants to be a part of. Maybe it’s the fact that my body is contorted like a fetus in the womb, or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had anything to drink but mojitos in the past four days, but something is causing me major calf cramps.

My sneakers side-step a puddle as soon as I enter Car 2’s bathroom.

It reeks from the piss caked on the floor mixing with a touch of stale cigarette. The sink has a picture of a faucet with a red X through it. I can’t let these cramps continue, so I head towards the First Class dining car to buy some water.

“Hi. Can I have two waters?” I ask the worker.

“Glass or without glass?” He replies in a heavy accent.

“No glass.”

“Glass or without glass?” He asks again.

“Just a bottle, please.”

“GAS OR WITHOUT GAS!” He shouts.

“Oh! Sorry, no gas.”

He hands me two still waters and I walk back to my car feeling like a jackass.

I down one water as I head back to the pissy bathroom to brush my teeth. There’s this half-bar of green soap stuck to the side of the sink. I wonder if someone brought it from home and left it here on accident. Either way, this setup is as shady as most of the hostels I’ve found myself in this past month.

Back in car eight, I tuck myself into the carpeted concrete seat. I ball up my Forever 21 jean jacket to use as a pillow. My skinny jeans just might cut off my circulation, but my leggings are in the Ripley’s suitcase.

I can handle it until we get there.

10:00 PM. The conductor comes on the loudspeaker, announcing something in German. The Viennese couples’ faces fall with disappointment. They tell us because of mudslides in The Alps, we have to train through Salzburg instead of Switzerland.

10:30 PM. We move from our standstill.

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11:00 PM. We stop again; this time because a tree has fallen on the tracks.

1:30 AM. We start moving again.

4:00 AM. I wake up because I have to pee from chugging those two waters and notice we aren’t moving. I’m too tired to speculate what’s wrong this time.

7:00 AM. “We are still in Austria, you know,” says the Viennese woman. My heart sinks. “We went back to Vienna and spent the night there. The train had a mechanical error.”

“Do you know when our arrival time is?” We ask her.

“No idea.”

9:00 AM. All of us are starving, so we pass around a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and pretzel sticks. Thank God we went to the grocery store before this.

I take my shoes off, running around the train car in my black GoldToe socks, dodging piss puddles every time I have to pee. The bathroom now reeks of cigarette smoke; I see the empty pack in the trash.

“It looks like the mudslide happened in our train car!” The Viennese man jokes. I look over to my backpack and see he’s right: my stuff is everywhere. I’ve got a book on the ground, my face wash is in the corner, and

my jacket’s sprawled out on the empty seat. This place looks like my room during finals week.

“A lot happened last night,” I say, defeated.

12:00 PM. We are in Austria, at yet, another stand still. The Viennese couple tells us the train has another mechanical problem.

“Wanna see something cool?” I ask everyone as I dig through my purse. I pull out my pen from De Linden and show it off.

“You stole Jack’s pen?” Hannah asks.

“I didn’t steal it! I found it and threw it in my purse because I need pens for class. Then when I got home, I noticed it said ‘De Linden’ on it.”

“So, basically you stole it.” The Viennese man says.

Everyone chimes in and starts mocking me for my thievery. I am now known as a train kleptomaniac. There is no use in defending myself; the Viennese man is relentless. At least we’re having fun.

2:00 PM. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. I go to the train car to buy water and the woman working the cart gives me four for free. I chug two and save the others for later.

I can’t stand my skinny jeans anymore, so I stand on my train seat, digging through the Ripley’s bag to find my leggings. They’re buried somewhere in there, and all I can find is my purple pajama shorts. They don’t 27

match my blouse at all, and with these socks on, I’m a fashion disaster.

This old man keeps pacing back and forth past our car. “Who does he belong to?” Hannah wonders. The poor man looks like he’s lost it on this train, and we’re all cracking up about it.

4:00 PM. We stop again due to mechanical issues; this time in the last town in Austria. I don’t know what mechanical issues even means at this point. The Viennese couple translates once again, telling us that we can get off the train now, or go to Venice.

I have no idea why they chose Venice as the only stop in Italy, it’s the most flooded region. And we don’t know anything about this little town in Austria, so it looks like we’re going to Venice.

I’m sick of peeing in the pissy bathroom, so I head to first class. To my surprise, they have free bottles of water in there. I chug two and toss them out in the bathroom to avoid looking like an animal and carry four back to our car with me.

“You bought more waters?” The Viennese man asks.

“I found these in the first class bathroom,” I say, looking down at my shoes.

“Found them or stole them?” He jokes.

Everyone starts picking on me again.

5:00 PM.

Train workers come around to speak with us in English. They say that instead of taking us to Venice, they will drop us off in Bologna. From there, we can get on another train to Rome.

6:00 PM. “What are your names?” I finally ask our Viennese friends.

“Anna and Abbas,” says the man. “Like the band.”

7:00 PM. The train car workers pass out emergency food packages. Everybody gets a bag containing one juice, some crackers, a cookie, and a bottle of water. I live up to my klepto reputation and steal an extra juice and pack of crackers.

We’re all sitting there in silence when I declare, “I like this juice.”

“You’re like an old man,” Abbas laughs. “We have no idea what’s going on and you’re just talking about juice.

8:30 PM. We arrive in Bologna. No one gives us any instructions, and we can’t ask anyone for help because all the workers have miraculously disappeared.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” I ask a worker who is helping customers buy tickets from the machine.

“No. You have to wait in line,” she replies in perfect English.

8:55 PM. We reach the front of the line. I’m tired, zoned, out, and staring at 29

the arms of a man who looks like Johnny from The Sopranos while Hannah explains our situation. In that moment, I learn everyone in Bologna looks like my dad from the elbow down.

He calls the train company to get us tickets. I can’t make out all that he’s saying, but I catch him say that he has “three American babies” who need to go to Rome tonight. He adds that we’re already twenty-five hours late.

After scribbling something in Italian on our ticket, we head to the train platform. The rest of this journey should be easy enough: except that there is no train number corresponding with the number the Johnny lookalike jotted down. We have no idea what train we’re supposed to be on, so we hop on the next train to Rome.

Hannah’s very nervous about the whole thing, and Nahaira and I are too tired to even care. When the man comes around to check our tickets, he reads what the man wrote down, confirms we’re on the wrong train, but says it’s okay.

10:30 PM. We arrive in Rome. All of us are exhausted as we Uber back to the hostel.

Once again, we explain our situation, this time to the hostel owner.

“Here,” he says, handing us a bottle of wine. “It’s been a long day.”

And he’s right-it has been. But we are here, in Italy, in the country I have dreamed of stepping foot in since I was a little girl. We had to deal with mechanical errors, mudslides, and an angry water salesman. But we also

made two friends from Vienna, got free wine, and were allowed to stay on the wrong train to Rome.

Back in our hostel, we raise our glasses: to twenty-five hours.

Saluti.

Castle Is Where the Heart Is Henry Black 31

London

Paige Freeman

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Chapters

Helene Graham With my back against cold grass I see What I’ve seen many times before I see the constellations I know I see the bales that sit soaked in rain I hear the wind and the whistle of a familiar tune But I’ve never heard it quite like that And I’ve never seen the milky way from here, Never held it in the palm of my hand like I do now, Where it leaves its own signature.

At the feet of an old city, I walk, Its bootstraps polished and shining, Its crown towering above me Where I have to bend my neck So far it takes my breath away And the streets that branch out turn into ribbons, Concealing gifts behind peach facades and storefronts And as I unwrap them, they fill up pages like postcards.

The fields and forests and fens wash by, Mopped away by the wheels trundling beneath us along with Dusty carpet seats And bags bundled to the brim.

One minute, music seeping into my ears, The next, the voices of friends Or the snapping of another page, Hole-punched by the conductor.

Rainbow windows hush the masses While old, stone walls color sounds, I drop one coin and to the chorus of candles I light another That dances like a child amongst its family I take out the page that keeps you, Remember the times when we held you And thank you for holding us still.

I will flip to those pages now and then Now new, but soon old And though the shadow of the chill of the night Will warm me like an oven, Will forever stain the palm of my hand, The milky way will have already slipped Far beyond my reach.

Berlin Cathedral Berlin, Germany Aya Faham

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Science in the Sky Alex Hahn

Fleeting

Cate Hayes Anticipation builds in my chest As we climb to altitudes incomprehensible.

White air clouds my vision Between fog, I see us crawl closer to the edge Past the cliff, a jagged blue outcropping Cerulean, ethereal, astounding—I know I will fall.

My footsteps carry me airborne.

The only thing falling is the ground beneath me Because this feeling is the opposite of falling, My heart fluttering with a new sensation of weightlessness, And while gravity should be working against my body, Wind rushes in, cradling me, A hawk dips to my left— How wonderful that flight is not fleeting for him.

This weightlessness cannot last for me, I knew from the start, and as we approach the ground, The memory of flying begins to fade.

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Münchner Haus Alex Hahn

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untitled in athens, or not-lebanon, or something that feels like memory Abigail Hadfield

in athens i mistake at least 10 elderly women for my grandmother, and i am tempted to call out to each of them, but instead i [dream that each one of them is actually another grandmother of mine, waiting to take me into her arms and say i knew you would make it here one day, we have been waiting, all of us have been waiting, and now we can finally go home] just say nothing. when i sit on the acropolis and i am out of breath and sweating and squinting in the sunlight, i don’t cry because this has been my dream since i was a child, although i had thought that would be the reason. instead i cry because this is as close to lebanon as i have ever been. close to something like home. and i want to take a rock with me because there is a chance that some ancestor of mine, or maybe a cousin, sat here too, and thought about the fact that they might have a relative overseas somewhere, in some cushy philadelphia suburb, crying about the fact that they probably won’t ever see beirut. but i don’t take a rock with me. instead i put on my sunglasses and say, “we should probably get going now.” maybe i’ll scrape the dust from the bottom of my shoe and call it a souvenir. the only time we see the ocean is from the top of a hill, looking out, sparkling blue and somehow completely still, and i casually point and say “look, you can see the water” as if i’m not dying to start swimming across the mediterranean towards a family i don’t know, saying “i’m coming, please don’t disappear, i’m so scared you’ll vanish when i’m not looking, i promise i am on my way”

Den Haag Nicole Salvatore

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Highway Hikes, Wild Boars, and Underground Rivers Emma Lopez

The vivid image of a raging wild boar barreling across the road one night while a middle aged man I had just met an hour ago drives me down a dark forest road in the Ardennes forest of Belgium is an image I cannot shake from my mind, nor one that I particularly want to. I knew that I wanted to take at least one solo trip while studying abroad in the Netherlands - to find myself and all that. When I thought about the phrase, “independent travel,” I pictured myself taking my time sipping on a fine glass of wine, hiking up a mountain humming a lovely tune, confidently hopping on and off trains, or wandering winding town streets at my own pace. While I did do these things, I was not prepared for the craziness that came with these personal luxuries.

The ball began to roll as soon as I booked my Air B&B which was actually a bed and breakfast, the “beautiful chateau in the heart of the Ardennes forest in Erezee, Belgium”, as it was listed on the site. I thought that the location was perfect - both serene and desolate – two of my favorite qualities in a woodland home. The man, Nicholas, who owned the bed a breakfast was rated as superhost on the site, which meant that he got very high reviews. In the comments people said his wife and kids cooked them delicious food and made them feel very at home, which made me feel more comfortable picking this home to stay at since I would be all by myself.

Also, he noted on the website he could pick guests up the train station. When I asked him about this, he said that I was arriving too early to the train station to be picked up, so I would have to walk and take the “scenic route” to his house, even though my arrival was exactly at check-in time. I looked at the distance from the train station to his house and relaxed when I saw it was only a mile and a half. I did this all the time in Boston. This would be a piece of cake, I thought.

As I sat on the train propelling me from the Netherlands to Belgium, I looked out the window and watched the world zoom by me in a flash. My heart sung as steep mountains appeared out the window, bordering the small, magical, picturesque towns. My fantasies of this trip were already being played out right outside the window of this fast moving train. The windows were like a screen and I was watching a beautiful national geographic video that I would soon be stepping into. When the train rolled into the station, I strolled off the train like a victorious war general surveying his new conquered land. I had successfully traversed through the Netherlands and into Belgium, hopping from train to train like a pro traveler. Feeling confident and with a pep in my step, I began my walk.

The quaint little town called Erezee was a ghost town; not a person in sight. I noticed this to be a common theme in my travels around southern Belgium – no people outside. It was like everyone had evacuated the town because of some nuclear disaster or like I was walking through an empty movie set. On either sides of me lay expansive fields that were bordered by tall trees that created an ominous presence in the distance. My heart began to race with excitement as I took in this beautiful landscape. As I continued to follow my GPS, I saw that the next turn was onto a major highway. At this point I heavily relied on my phone to get me there, so I blindly followed my 5”/3” metal slab onto the highway with cars moving a speeds that felt like 90 miles an hour. I did not panic though, because I thought that I was just passing through briefly. Little did I know that I would be on this highway for the majority of the walk – 30 minutes to be exact. Cars sped by me, barely moving to give me space as I walked by. With every car that zipped by me I was hit with a massive gust of wind that blew my hair from my face, giving me an undesired windswept look. The sun relentlessly beat down on me and I quickly became drenched in sweat under my fur jacket that I refused to take off. My jacket was intended to be used for cool mornings, not trekking down a highway while being bathed in sunlight. I refused to take it off because it was my ineffective armor against the high-speed highway with unknown cars 43

passing by. I kept picturing a car pulling over to me and being that cliché abducted girl that was taken while “stupidly” thinking she could go somewhere by herself for once. For the first time in my life I felt like hitchhiker or a misfit estranged from home. I wondered if the cars were pitying me. I kept my head low as a pushed through the tall grasses that bordered the highway, leaving me a foot of space between myself and the cars.

Sweaty, tired, and sore; I finally arrived arrived at the chateau. It was beautiful, just like the pictures; but also completely empty, not a soul in sight. After I had found the key Nicholas had hidden for me, I hauled my tired sweaty body inside. I peeked into around 9 rooms that looked like they had not been lived in. Nicholas texted me and said he would be home at 6 pm - six hours from now. With no bed to lay in, I went out to the porch and laid on the sofa, closing my eyes and taking in the sounds of the wind through the trees. It’s not like I was in a city where I could go to a museum or local town; I was in the forest with nothing surrounding me. Even on my walk to the house I didn’t past one store except a carpenter. With my stomach grumbling, I pulled out my phone and checked to see where the closest restaurant or grocery store was, hoping to get lucky. The closest food place was about a two hour walk away. My heart sunk. Desperate, I checked Uber and taxi, knowing that my chances were slim but checking all the same. Sure enough, I was stranded. On top of that, no other people were in sight even though the website had said that the place was all booked after I had made my reservation.

After a few hours of laying on the couch in panicked isolation and hunger, I decided that I needed to take advantage of this time because I was in the beautiful Ardennes forest and I was simply wasting my time by sitting on a couch. I walked out of the chateau and onto the street, channeling the general that I had felt like before. There were no hiking trails labeled anywhere, so when I came across a trail that looked like it might be for hiking, I took the chance and stepped into the forest. As I walked through the forest, I saw strange wooden platforms and signs written in French that I could

not quite read, even with my “extensive” three years of high school French.

Gunshots went off in the not so far distance, and I immediately put two and two together and ran out of the forest. Later I confirmed that I had gone for my spiritual hike within an active shooting range.

Back at the chateau I waited, and waited, and waited. I was sleeping on the porch when I was awoken by the sound of a car pulling in the driveway. I shot up, feeling like a prisoner kept in solitary confinement finally getting a taste of freedom. The door opened, and in the doorway stood the long-anticipated Nicholas. He towered over me at around 6’3”.

“Bonjour Nicholas!” I said, trying to utilize my French, “Bonjour Emma, lovely to see you.” We shook hands and exchanged some small talk.

He brought me inside and he shuffled around in the kitchen while I sat on the edge of the couch, acutely aware that it was evening time, not one guest that arrived, and I was alone with a man in his house in the middle of who knows where. At least his wife and kids would be home soon, I thought.

I decided to inquire further into his life.

“So Nicholas, I saw that you live here with your family?” I asked innocently. His expression grew solemn, and his face fell.

“No, not anymore, we separated,” Nicholas said, shutting the cabinet a little too hard. My stomach twisted.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

We continued to talk, getting to know each other, but the whole time I had it in the back of my head that I had made a terrible decision thinking that it was a good idea to stay in the forest alone in a random B&B. “Are you hungry?” Nichols asked. I nodded. I think he could sense my unrest.

“Oh my god yes, I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” I said, my stomach rumbling to testify.

“Let’s go out to eat!” He said, and began to put his shoes on. I smiled but on the inside danger bells were clanging like they do on every 45

hour. However, I was starving, and I couldn’t pass up an offer of food. He drove us to a pizza place in the center of the town Erezee, and the first page of the menu was solely vegan pizza which instantly excited me. Nicholas and the waitress greeted each other warmly which made me feel better; maybe he wasn’t a serial killer? Serial killers don’t warmly greed waitresses, right?

The dinner consisted of delicious food and an even more satisfying conversation. Nicholas and I talked relationships, spirituality, politics - you name it.

At the end of dinner, I looked across the table and realized that my fear was slowly ebbing.

After dinner, we drove to a nearby town called Durbuy, one of the oldest towns in Belgium that had not been destroyed in World War II. Walking through the quiet streets, Nicholas gave me the rundown of every building, storefront, and hill. We wound up at his favorite bar, a pirate bar.

Everyone was dressed up in pirate costumes and laughing while downing fruity looking drinks. The liquor was kept in large glass jars that had various spices, fruits, and herbs. It felt like we had walked onto the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. Keeping my wits about me, I only had a few sips of my drink and then we left.

It was on the drive home when a wild boar barreled across the road.

Nicholas swerved into the other lane and slammed on the brakes. We sat in shock for a moment, jolted by what had just happened, but then we started hysterically laughing. I took the boar as an omen – an omen of a wild trip never to be forgotten.

The next day I woke up refreshed and eager to start the day. Last night a couple had arrived late at night at the chateau from South Africa and the Netherlands, so I slept easier knowing that I was not in a house all alone with my friendly but still foreign friend. At breakfast I devoured fresh juicy grapes, rich chocolate spread on toast, and jasmine tea. Being a vegan, I had not eaten chocolate in weeks here in Europe because most of the chocolate has milk in it. However, the chocolate was so pure and rich that it did not contain any milk, so I didn’t feel bad when I smeared four pieces of toast

with the decadent chocolate goodness.

That day, Nicholas allowed me to take his bike. I biked through small towns riddled with farmland scattered among the tall trees of the forest. I got off my bike at one point to pet a small adorable dog on a road that looked like it had been taken out of a fairytale book. As I biked away, he did did not chase me, he ran with me; his long ears billowing in the wind and as his goofy pink tongue hung from his jowls. Further down the street I came across a farmer’s market where I tried to buy some dates from a woman in French who gave them to me for free with a warm smile illuminating her face. I did not know why the woman had given me them for free, but it filled my heart with a warmth that emanated throughout my entire body. I continued to walk my bike down the road bordered with stands of fruits and vegetables, and felt like I was walking through a movie set. Some people stared at me, knowing that I did not belong, but welcomed me all the same with smiles that reached their eyes.

Later that day, I found an actual hiking trail - not a shooting range.

On the trail I stopped by a river and ate the dates I was given and savored every bite. They were the biggest and most flavorful dates I had ever eaten.

I felt like I was eating candy. I gazed out onto the river, closed my eyes, and meditated. This was the first time I had meditated in weeks since coming to Europe. On the bike ride back to the town, I wandered into a strange looking complex with parks and scattered buildings. I soon after realized that I had wandered into a Syrian Refugee camp. A few boys yelled out something to me in a language I did not know and smiled as I biked by. I smiled back and biked on.

On the way back I came across a sign that indicated that there was a cave on the top of one of the small mountains that you could tour called the “Grottes de Hotton�. I immediately texted Nicholas that I may be late for the dinner he was cooking for his guests, and in response he said he would meet me at the cave then drive me back after. I started ascending the steep mountain on a smooth road, pushing my bike in front of me, sweating and breath47

ing heavily. I kept looking back behind me to regard the beautiful mountains that rose from the earth as I continued to rise up the ever-steepening hill.

When I finally reached the top, I purchased my ticket while trying to catch my breath, and soon after Nicholas joined me right as the tour begun.

“You speak English?” The tour guide said.

“Yes, but it’s okay! You don’t have to speak English for me,” I said, flustered because I didn’t want everyone to make a fuss about the Englishonly-speaking American traveler in the tour group filled with multilingual Europeans. The man quickly switched to English for the rest of the tour for me. I absorbed every word he said like a sponge, taking in the stalactites and underground rivers. I was mesmerized how the river cut through the limestone, carving it out over the years like a knife slices cheese. Every now and then a drip of water would hit me on the forehead; I felt like I was being christened over and over again in this holy ancient place. Nicholas and I shared a laugh when we passed the “cave cheese”, cheese that they bring down into the cave to age. Apparently the temperature in the cave was perfect for ageing cheese... Who knew? We exited the cave and entered back into the warm setting sun. I dreamily watched the sun set in the distance over a particularly large beautiful mountain, (large for Belgium).

“Do you feel like hiking?” He asked. My face lit up. Earlier that day I walked through the forest but I didn’t really hike. We drove to the base of the mountain I had been looking up, and we scrambled up the short but steep trail. The view from the top took our breaths away. The massive trees looked so small from where we were, and the town looked even smaller than it already was.

That night at the Chateau, two more couples arrived from the Netherlands, and we all sat around the table to eat dinner. We talked like we had been long lost friends. This roof bound us together in the sense that we were all family for that night. We shared pictures, memories, anger, feelings, and love. I have never been more immersed in a culture before that night.

A woman who was an artist showed me her artwork on her phone, flipping

through pictures. Her husband and I then discussed the practices of the meat industry in America and Europe for an hour. It was like I had entered another world, every moment so newer and rawer than the next. I finally started to understand what being a solo traveler meant – It meant finding your own way in a world filled with strangers, then making those strangers not so strange. At breakfast the next morning, I looked across the table and saw friends, not strangers. Never will I forget my time in Erezee with my new friends, or the wild boar that catapulted the whole wild weekend into motion.

alley cat (Bruges, Belgium) Sam Willinger

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On the Hunt for the Prime Meridian or Greenwich Foot Tunnel Alex Hahn

Kasteel Well, Fall 2018 Jessica Costas

Ever since I was in middle school, I wanted to attend Emerson College. I did not know what I wanted to study, but I knew it was where I wanted to be. To be able to have Boston Common as my backyard and study art in some form sounded like a dream. Sophomore year of high school I met someone who had gone to Emerson, and they encouraged me to apply for the Kasteel Well Program. Being able to live in a castle and travel around Europe seemed like an ideal semester. After receiving my acceptance from Emerson, my next goal was to get to Well. From December 2017 on, my excitement kept me writing and rewriting lists of places I wanted to visit and trying to solve the equation of how I could do it all. By the time September came, and we were boarding the plane to Amsterdam, I had no idea where I was heading, just that I was going somewhere. My whole life I was told it’s about the journey not the destination, and I believed that. It wasn’t until I stood in the rain for three hours on the way home from Amsterdam with eight classmates that I felt that way. Journeys are about the people you surround yourself with. You need people that will dance in the middle of the Victoria and Albert Museum, take an egg for you, splurge on a spontaneous river cruise, hold your hand as you chug down Mt. Pilatus on the world’s steepest cog rail, hug you during the tough times, and remind you that, in the bigger picture, this moment is just a grain of salt. I’ll miss the late Sunday night exchanges of travel stories and the comfort of seeing a familiar face on your train home. I’ll miss the relief of stroopwafels and tea. Mostly I’m dreading when these ninety days come to an end, but they are just a glimpse of what I have left to explore. I’ll probably never get to live in a castle ever again, but I’ll have the people I’ve made those memories with to keep that joy alive.

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Zugspitze Klimaforschungsstation Alex Hahn

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Tourism Causing Problems for Amsterdam’s Red Light District

Allison Payne I’m in Amsterdam; I approach a very narrow hallway tucked between a busy street called Stoofsteeg in Amsterdam. The first thing I notice: a sign on the wall that reads “No F***ing Pictures”. What I see next to that sign: a tourist carrying out an entire photoshoot of this unique street. This is a perfect example of the effects of tourism on this famous district and the rest of Amsterdam.

I am in the heart of Amsterdam’s Red Light District where sex workers pose behind glass doors waiting for their next client to come inside. This district is an important part of Dutch culture. Along with many other issues the Dutch are quite transparent and open. For instance, it was one of the first countries to legalize same-sex marriage, legalize euthanasia, make prostitution legal, and tolerate marijuana use.

All of these unique qualities of Amsterdam bring thousands and thousands of tourists. This creates a problem for the city: over-tourism. Not only are the sheer numbers that flock to Amsterdam to see the historic city an issue, but how they behave is as well. The Red Light District is just a symbol of this occurrence.

In order to tackle these issues Amsterdam mayor, Femke Halsema, and her administration announced new measures to tackle misconduct from tourists in the Red Light District specifically. These sanctions include on-the-spot fines as high as 140 euros for public urination, drunkenness or excessive noise; street cleaning, and hiring of security workers who enforce the rules of no drinking in the streets; and no photographs. In addition to this, Amsterdam is putting a lot of their money towards a marketing campaign to persuade tourists to respect the city and its rules.

Stoofsteeg, the narrow street that I found myself on, can become so crowded on busy days that it can take 15 minutes to walk the 50-meter long street. Then you have to push through the tourists gawking at the women

standing in the windows. City estimates say that on a busy weekend, up to 6,000 thousand people can pass through that narrow alley. According to the New York Times, 20 million tourists visited Amsterdam last year. That creates a lot of responsibility for police officers as residents complain that there are not enough to ensure everyone’s safety.

This isn’t the first time that Amsterdam has had to make adjustments to the Red Light District. The city’s 1012 program, named after the area’s postal code, ended this year and was a gentrification project that closed 100 brothels and dozens of coffee shops. This effectively shrunk the size of the Red Light District making way for many shops selling tacky souvenirs or refreshment.

All of these measures are not meant to drive away tourists from Amsterdam. The city just asks visitors to respect the city and to behave.

Toone Raeanne Szydlo

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the timid & tough Charleigh Triaga

Richard says you don’t sit down to write poetry, a poem goes through you like a wave like a current like a symphony at the concert, the way the orchestra plays, all euphony, & you wonder how the conductor’s hands can do all that, can lead a militia of music, marching like men in North Korea on CBS, all propaganda; still euphony.

I stand in a cubist museum writing a poem so uniform militia men march in it.

It’s all square & perfect & in its own box, just like everything is,

just like that woman is who glares at me, disgusted & certain that I’m texting.

When the time comes and you find yourself alone, you won’t know what to do.

I’ve been alone for far too long, maybe that’s why I prep for unpreparedness, all scatterbrained & negligent.

“Why haven’t you been drunk here?” asks a boy & I pause.

“I used to drink when I was sad,” so I stopped until the sadness did.

But sadness never stops, it comes in waves, like poems & symphonies all in my head; art is madness I never have to silence.

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Liebe Siegestor Alex Hahn

The Eyes - The Hague, South Holland, The Netherlands Aya Faham

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Amsterdam Raeanne Szydlo

Amsterdam, my good friend you tried your very best to give me your whole world in one, two, three short days, but alas, I wish the train tracks were reversed and I was still with you.

I pray the sun will glow and embrace the beauty I so crave to observe for just one more moment Next time, then, Amsterdam, and maybe the rain won’t wash us away.

Love is Us Jessica Costas

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Alan

Harvey Kelley

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Our Crib - Well, Limburg, The Netherlands Aya Faham

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Staff Fall 2018 Robbert van Helsdingen, Advisor “Everything will turn out right, the world is built on that.” -Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

Allison Caravella, Editor-in-Chief “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.” -Walt Disney

Abigail Hadfield, Indesign Commitee Leader “Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.”

-Kahlil Gibran Kait Hackett, Indesign & PR Committee “It has been a beautiful fight / still is” -Charles Bukowski Sofia Murzin, Indesign & Journalism Committee “I’m interested in having fun with ideas, throwing them up in the air like confetti and running underneath them.” -Ray Bradbury

Cristina Casas, Editing Committee Leader “Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories.” -Zadie Smith

Bianca D’Antonio, Editing Committee “Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing.” -Ron Swanson

Sarah Callan, Editing & Art Selection Committee “And we are magic talking to itself, / noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins / forgotten. Am I still lost? / Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself” -Anne Sexton Cate Hayes, Editing & PR Committee “what’s the greatest lesson a woman should learn? that since day one. she’s already had everything she needs inside herself. it’s the world that convinced her she did not.” -Rupi Kaur

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Staff Fall 2018 Raeanne Szydlo, Art Selection Committee Leader & Editing Committee “In order to write about life first you must live it.” -Ernest Hemingway Paige Freeman, Art Selection & Cover Committee “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.”

-D. H. Lawrence Angela Piazza, Art Selection Committee “There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.” -Vincent Van Gogh

Emma Lopez, Journalism Committee Leader “Happiness can exist only in acceptance.”

-George Orwell

Marcia Rabinoff, Journalism Committee “You’re only given one little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” -Robin Williams

Kailey Chalmers, Journalism Committee “Not everybody likes licorice, but people who like licorice really like licorice.” -Jerry Garcia

Nicole Salvatore, PR Committee Leader “This is just part of growing up, a little adventure, a little rebellion.” -Tangled

Karrington Brown, PR Committee “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” -John Steinbeck

Helene Graham, Cover Committee Leader “Adults are only kids grown up, anyway.”

-Walt Disney

Charleigh Triaga, Editing Committee “Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.

Be afraid of nothing.” -Oscar Wilde 69

Dulcia: A Lady with a Legacy Sam Willinger

Contributors Alexa Barton Henry Black Karrington Brown Allison Caravella Jessica Costas Bianca D’Antonio Aya Faham Paige Freeman Helene Graham Alex Hahn Abigail Hadfield Cate Hayes Harvey Kelley Emma Lopez Sofia Murzin Allison Payne Nicole Salvatore Raeanne Szydlo Charleigh Triaga Samuel Willinger

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Fall 2018 Students

Maggie Anderson Alexa Barton Hannah Bedel-Franklin Henry Black Navin Bose Liz Bradford Madison Brooks Karrington Brown Sarah Callan Antonio Camasie Allison Caravella Cristina Casas Kailey Chalmers Quinn Chao Jessica Costas Emily Cristobal Bianca D’Antonio Michael DePalma Alejandra Duque Neely Eddleston Gus Edelen O’Brien

Aya Faham Paige Freeman Helene Graham Olivia Granzen Isa Guerrero Kait Hackett Abigail Hadfield Alex Hahn Emily Harrison Emma Hart Cate Hayes Sam Hogan Harvey Kelley Maysoon Khan Tea Kingley Cally Kress Arasha Lalani Morgan Lalikos Emma Lopez Lindsey Lowe Kelli Mark

Fall 2018 Students

Annie Martin Kaylee Mattoon Claudia Montaner Isa Moon Nahaira Morales Owen Murray Sofia Murzin Lily Nelson Allison Payne Jacob Peck Daniel Peden Michaela Perez Liz Perkin Angela Piazza Maeve Power Marcia Rabinoff Luke Richert Maxwell Rosenberg Mandy Rubeli Maya Rubio Cole Salamone

Nicole Salvatore Genevieve Schuh Max Schwalback Ruth Secular Jacob Solkoff Clay Sosis Mollie Stern Rebecca Strauss Raeanne Szydlo Julia Taylor Zachary Tobias Madeline Tomich Charleigh Triaga Jarrett Wilder Sam Willinger Cassandra Yany Howard Zhang Meilin Zhu

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