Souvenirs: Fall 2019 Print Issue

Discover your Wanderlust

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Fall 2019 Editor in Chief Paige Strigel

On the Cover Amanda Janquart, Italy

Art Director Lily Oberstein

Contributing Photographers

Deputy Editors Ana Demendoza Genevieve Vahl Editors Megan Janssen Ana Komro Emma Liverseed Allison Streckenbach

Carrie Lynn Barker Matt Cardoza Celeste Carroll Kylie Compe Hugh Findlay Clayton Jannusch Ellen Marie Lee Raven Patzke Emmett Sexton Julia Skorb Kayla Wasserman Art Associate Tayla Tabibzadeh

Staff Writers Kim Asseily Claudia Belawski Chandler Maas Kiersten McDevitt Diana Powers Contributing Writers Matthew Cardoza Alice Couteille Charlie Kitcat Kaylen Leverenz Fiona Quinn Marketing Director Ashley Luehmann

WUD Publications Committee Director Carlo Romagnolo WUD Publications Committee Advisor Jennifer Farley Wisconsin Union President Tanvi Tilloo

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Through the publishing of our seven student-run journals and magazines, the Publications Committee of the Wisconsin Union Directorate provides a creative outlet for UW-Madison students interested in creating poetry and prose, reporting on travel, music and fashion, or delving into research in science and public policy. We celebrate creativity on campus by providing hands-on experience in publishing, editing, writing and artmaking.

LETTER FROM the editor

Coming into this fall, I had big shoes to fill.

Ruth and Sophia made Souvenirs my first home at UW-Madison, and I’ve always felt incredibly lucky to count myself a part of this team. It has been an absolute privilege to step into leading the team this year.

Luckily, I was met by a group of writers, editors, photographers, designers and artists whose talents speak for themselves.

The works that came together in this magazine tell stories of learning and change. They tell of adventures, challenges, and unexpected joys. They tell of life lived expansively, always moving toward the story-worthy experiences instead of the comfortable ones. .

OBERSTEIN

The stories in these pages invited me into an herb-infused performance art piece gone wrong, threw me into a freezing cold desert filled with camels, and reminded me of the ways people, places and heartache can link together inextricably. I invite you to join me in the next pages, finding the stories that captivate, transport and inspire you. May you always choose intimidating adventure over simple comfort.

Paige

Paige

Sttigel

Souvenirs is a collection of travel and multicultural experiences from students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Souvenirs’ mission is to provide a platform for students to share lessons they learned while traveling and to provide readers with quality information while inspiring wanderlust.

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POWERS, CANADA

DISCOVER YOUR wanderlust

FOR MORE, FOLLOW @SOUVENIRSMADISON ON INSTAGRAM & FACEBOOK AND VISIT SOUVENIRSMADISON.COM

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IN THIS ISSUE Fall 2019

Views Through a Rainstorm Cold, Deserted & Over My Hump The Wind Will Know My Name Going for a Swim in the Soaked Streets of Saigon Deutschland Im Sommer Into the Unknown

Edward Herb Hands

The Lives I’ll Never Live

The Side of the Path

El Lugar Que Nunca Esperé Que Me Gustaría The Power of an Old-Fashioned Letter Dinner with the Luzzettis Losing California Gurl Way Down There

Sachsenhausen FALL 2019

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JANQUART, SPAIN

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VIEWS THROUGH A RAINSTORM LEE, SINGAPORE

BY KIERSTIN McDEVITT

W

e charge, uncaring, into the blustering downpour. A quarter mile through the thick shroud, over the lush Kelly green, to the wall that sits at the edge with a binocular viewer. The rain comes down so hard that I can feel it showering my skin through my raincoat.

Nonetheless, we reach the edge grinning, ponchos billowing. The black umbrella blows inside out. Laughter bubbles up in my throat at the craziness of it all, chiming clearly through the wet air. It is storming heavily, but we came here anyway. Even in the dim light, the cliffs stand stark and stunning, all stacked along one another above the swirling blue sea. The verdant grass is

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like a blanket of purple wildflowers draped over the ridged rock. Still pumped with exhilaration, we stand side by side and drink in this new sight.

The view is not the one from sun-glossed postcards, but even under harshness, it is beautiful. I know when I remember this moment, I will not wish to imagine it any other way than through the grainy pictures of soaked smiles wrapped in an embrace. We huddle in jubilation that we are here, in this chaotic moment, to witness a piece of the world’s beauty together.

And I feel that certain blissful freedom that exists in exploring new places, in adventuring with people that bring you joy.

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LEE, SINGAPORE

COLD, DESERTED & OVER MY HUMP

BY CHARLIE KITCAT

F

ifteen kilometers ahead, a menacing storm was swelling. In minutes it would swallow a few thousand helpless and shivering onlookers. Five waves of blurry brown swiftly morphed into one colossal chestnut tsunami, vapor rising from its surf like a mirage. This biblical swarm of locusts was ready to strip the land of everything living but we were already surrounded by miles of sandy nothingness. And we wouldn’t be screaming when it hit.

Instead, we were cheering the speediest of the 1,108 Bactrian camels that thundered through Mongolia’s sparse Gobi desert in the largest camel race of all time. And we weren’t shivering with fear. We were just excruciatingly cold.

Five thousand people were gathered in Mongolia’s busiest square kilometer, outside of Ulaanbaatar, at the unprecedented Ömnögovi Camel Festival in the South Gobi. It was rare to find anyone in the world’s least densely populated country, especially in bitter -25 degrees Celsius temperatures. But at this event — organized to promote the growth of Bactrian camels — the desert was buzzing with life. Many nomadic herdsmen had trekked their prized camels miles across the world’s coldest desert to attend.

Some had ventured for weeks from yurt villages in the distant Altai Mountains and China’s Inner Mongolia.

My desire to see a two-humped Bactrian camel was the main reason I journeyed to Mongolia. I wasn’t going to let a vodka-induced

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hangover initiated by Gurdrig, an equally hungover nomad I’d stayed with the night before, stop me from witnessing a festival devoted to them. Nor would I accept his repeated offers of his granddaughter’s hand in marriage.

Regretfully, the multiple camel dowry was too much for my puny budget. But really, if I was to ever buy a $750 camel, I’d be the one keeping it.

The Olympic-style opening ceremony was my first taste of the adoration nomadic Mongols feel for their camels, and a sweeter one than the camel milk tea I’d attempt to digest later.

Two thousand camels and their flag-wielding herdsmen circled the arena as swathes of vibrantly dressed nomads excitedly cheered.

But with a herdsman’s love comes a shade of cruelty. The tradition of nose-pegging is deemed unethical in the Western world. For nomads it is the norm; the camel equivalent of banishing a child to the naughty step. To the effervescent crowd, a festival without a nose-pegging competition would have been incomplete.

Adolescent camels jerk and leap like gazelles to avoid their lasso-wielding herders. When caught, a sharp wooden peg pierces their nostril before elder nomads attach and braid halters using camel hair. The quickest to domesticate their camels become the proud winners.

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WASSERMAN, SOUTH AFRICA

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However, this victory isn’t just about pride, but also the hefty monetary prize that follows. In communities reliant on livestock, even the smallest prize can help them cling to their traditional way of life. If ravaged with extreme weather — like 2010’s dzuds, which killed 9.7 million livestock — many nomads have no livelihood and must resort to poverty in the city.

Camel beauty pageant contestants compete for the same prize. Two-humped couples are tarted up like toddler’s dolls with accessories including reindeer antlers, turquoise bows and rainbow scarves. Their matching owners, dressed in their own ornate outfits, parade the camels over the dusty catwalk.

If the crowd’s traditional clothing is regal, then the couples leading the camels look like their emperors and empresses. They have summoned the opulence of their famous ancestor, Chinggis Khan, but without his barbarism. Gowns of sapphire

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and magenta stand out in the barren desert; bulky fur robes shield them from it, and shimmery pagoda-shaped hats, or toortsogs, complement it.

By the next brisk morning, the storm and tsunami had subsided, and great columns of dusty clouds had emerged.

Within 35 minutes and 12 seconds, one gleeful rider and camel had galloped 15km to cross the line. The desert derby was over!

This rider would receive one of many prizes won that weekend. Joining him was a nose-pierced teenager, Mr. and Mrs. Gobi, and a mother who bore a golden baby; a promising omen for future camel populations. But the true victor was nomadic tradition, reinforced with a world record and 1,108 more reasons to prevail.

And, I finally saw a camel…. . .

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COMPE, AUSTRALIA

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THE WIND WILL KNOW MY NAME

BY CLAUDIA BELAWSKI

The wind knows my name as I begin to start feeling sane atop the mountain.

Nature’s movements rest my soul.

I feel my body at rest with my heart, my chest.

My arms stretch to grasp reaching further higher the feeling that only persists When the wind hears me calling.

The wind forgets my name as I peer out my windowpane. longing crying calling for her to remember.

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BELAWSKI, USA

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PORTUGAL

BY AMANDA JANQUART

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I

had made it over the bridge, soaked to my core, with rain lashing my face, when it occurred to me that I might not make it home.

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I made a sweeping left-hand turn alongside the Saigon River and into a construction zone, a feature found all around this rapidly developing city. I joined a sea of other brave Saigonese intent on literally riding out the storm when I noticed the road was no longer visible. The lines had disappeared. I only saw water.

Even more problematic, the water was , moving. The entirety of Tôn Đúc Thăng street was now a series of small whitewater rapids. I `

Minutes before, I had said goodbye to a friend outside a milk tea shop in Ho Chi Minh City’s District 4, a notoriously low-lying and flood-prone district surrounded by aging canals.

A storm was raging, and I had to get home. I put my bright blue poncho over my head, cinched it tight around my neck and strapped my helmet under my chin. On Hoàng Diêu . street I ran three red lights, going as fast I could on my motorbike to stay above the rising water. The rain blinded me as it slashed my face without respite. I soared over the bridge, rising high above the city with

one eye open. When I finally opened both eyes again, I realized I had made it to District 1, the central business district, as evidenced by the futuristic “Stark Tower,” or Bitexco Financial Tower rising 850 feet to meet the raging storm above.

CARDOZA, VIETNAM

GOING FOR A SWIM IN THE SOAKED STREETS OF SAIGON

BY MATTHEW CARDOZA

had little choice but to pull back on the throttle and go for a swim. The water was nearly above my tires, my feet were submerged and I struggled to fight the current. A stoplight turned red, but I had zero intention of obeying the law tonight. To stop temporarily was to be stranded permanently — at least until the rain subsided.

So, I did what I had been taught by the locals.

The streetlight was a beacon of bright red light not unlike a lighthouse. The timer was not set to change for another 45 seconds, but I gunned the throttle anyway and accelerated as quickly as I could through the murky water.

My Vietnamese friends tell me that water cannot enter the exhaust if the throttle is always

open, so when it rains, it is better to accelerate than slow down.

It worked.

I drove, or rather lurched, through the light, careful to keep my motorbike upright before reaching the fringes of District 3, a historic area peppered with French colonial mansions and leafy streets. From here, it was riding as usual in Saigon, and I was soon in Phú Nhuân . District, my home away from home in Vietnam. The rain started to relent as I crossed yet another canal, and the street hawkers began to re-emerge onto the sidewalks as the comforting aroma of grilled pork, boiling soup, and the ever-present Vietnamese fish sauce filled the air.

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DEUTSCHLAND IM SOMMER

BY KIM ASSEILY

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JANQUART, SPAIN

t was a Tuesday morning in June when I received the email offering me an internship in Germany. I was to start on Monday. I booked my flight, packed my bags and headed to the airport within the hour. I was absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of spending two months in one of my favorite countries in the world. After all, who wouldn’t be excited to spend a full summer in Europe?

You might be surprised to hear that working abroad may not be as glamorous as it is made out to be.

You see, people often tell you that their time abroad was an absolute blast. Traveling every weekend to a different city? Check! Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when abroad? Take the time to visit as many places as you possibly can? No one is going to tell you they didn’t have the time of their life, or that they struggled with day to day life in a foreign country where they barely spoke the language. So here I am, to tell you a little something about moving to a small city, Ingolstadt, located about 50 minutes north of Munich, Germany.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!...

Do you hear that? It’s time to wake up. No?! You see, this isn’t my alarm going off. These are the sounds of church bells ringing at ungodly hours.

Every single day. Monday through Sunday. Ding!!!! It’s 6 a.m. My alarm is set for 7:30 a.m. No use going back to sleep. Ingolstadt is asleep, quiet except for the sound of bells. Only bakeries are open.

I let the smell of freshly baked Brezeln waffle waft through the open window of the bedroom.

Time to head to work. I can’t miss the 8:28 a.m. bus. It is the only one headed towards my place of work before 9 a.m.

We often assume the public transportation system in European countries is close to flawless. It is not. Final destinations for each bus change depending on what time you take it, they don’t always come more than once or twice within the hour and they stop running after midnight, unless you’re coming from the train station.

Heat. Sweat. In the air.

On my clothes. My skin. The stranger walking across the FALL 2019

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street wipes his face with his shirt. It’s 45 degrees Celsius today. It’s been three weeks already. The air is heavy. I’ve been walking for a while.

Parched. My throat is dry. The sun is still bright even though it’s 8:00 p.m. I finally make it home. It’s been a long day.

There is no relief here. It is still too hot. I turn on the radio.

They are warning everyone, especially children and the elderly, not to go outside. To stay out of the sun. To hydrate.

It’s still too hot in here. I open my window. No relief there either. Trapped.

Most German apartments, hotels and public spaces are not equipped with AC. In years past, Germany had never experienced such extreme heat

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waves. In the last couple of years, those heat waves have arrived earlier in the summer, and become harsher and more frequent.

It’s been a few weeks. I should have my schedule down to a science. Yet, I missed the bus. The next one leaves at 6:33 p.m. I don’t make it to the grocery store until 7:15 p.m.

Everything’s been picked over and the store closes in 45 minutes. Just like everything else. What to do? It’s too hot for a walk. I guess I’ll go home then.

It can be lonely at times, living in a city you barely know.

Where everything closes early,

and where the city is asleep on Sundays. Where the only people you know, you just met. are part of their community.

You just have to find that. A community. I was challenged to speak German every day by my colleagues. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but they helped me through it without judgement.

I was challenged in my work; I was listened to.

Despite the heat wave, messy public transportation system, loud church bells, and lonely, early nights, my time in Ingolstadt remains one of my favorite experiences. An emotional challenge. A period of growth.

SKORB, EUROPE

Don’t get me wrong, my time in Ingolstadt was rewarding, fun and challenging.

Waking up at the crack of dawn with the sound of church bells ringing became part of my daily routine — part of the charm of the city. The morning silence and crisp morning air were therapeutic. I craved them. I loved going to work. Walking in to hear “Morgen Kim! Wie geht’s dir heute?” every day. I met some incredible people. German people don’t all meet the stereotype. They are welcoming, friendly, open and curious.

They do want to get to know you, and make you feel like you

Vielen Dank Deutschland und bis bald!

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INTO THE unknown

BY DIANA POWERS

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weeping ocean views, towering mountains and flowing glaciers: British Columbia’s coast remains a preserved reminder of the time before humans. This untouched land is as beautiful as any exotic vacation paradise.

Mountains furnished with pines carpet the skyline as desolate hiking trails carve paths through the dense woods. Memories of noisy towns and crowds of people disappear into the crisp mountain air with every breath.

Climbing in elevation, the forest becomes tundra and the sky becomes a bright blue expanse. Waterfalls meander down the cliffside as they empty into the vast sea.

Following the rocks down, tide pools brimming with lichen and starfish emerge as the tide retreats into the horizon. The salty breeze envelops the rocky coast as crabs scuttle from boulder to boulder in search of their next meal. A bald eagle glides through the air towards a break in the mountains.

Glaciers fill the view, snaking their way through the mountains like a river of ice. As quiet as can be, these ice rivers take on the tides where they meet the coastline of the Pacific. Each crest beating against the ancient ice until a slice calves off. The ice splashes into the aquamarine water and unknowingly creates a home for seals to rest. As the icebergs depart from the shoreline, whales breach in the distance.

Truly, this pristine environment begs to be seen much more than just once.

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FINDLAY, USA

There’s something out of body about being on a bus on your own at night. When the sun is no longer around to remind you of your real life, it is easy to imagine you are anybody headed anywhere.

Look over at the person across the aisle.

They know nothing of you but the way you look now.

I exist most in these moments between places.

Time doesn’t exist here. I get lost in the realness and nothingness of the world. My mind strings together dreams and fantasies, and it is these times when I feel most the loss of the lives I’ll never live. Caught up in the normality of everyday life, I sometimes forget this truth. How I wasn’t born in salty ocean air. How I am not the daughter of a dreamer who fled to a faraway Greek island in her youth, and how I will never speak a native language different from my own.

How I will never be any of these things.

THE LIVES I’LL NEVER LIVE

BY KAYLEN LEVERENZ

Are you like me? Have you ever looked up at the faraway night and forgotten your whole life? I get lost in these soupy imaginings of possible lives.

Eventually though, the lights will flick on, I will get to where I am going, and I will be only me again.

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JANNUSCH, USA

Right now though, I am more than real.

SKORB, HUNGARY

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CARDOZA, VIETNAM

CARROLL, ITALY

SACHSENHAUSEN The wind still blows, shaking sapling leaves that glow lime green in the blinding grey skies.

Firs still drop their needles, littering the ground that bare feet once trampled.

Chirping birds break the deafening silence echoing across the vacant camp.

Nature as the only life left on a lot of death.

BY GENEVIEVE VAHL

Seasons resurrect life from the dead; depths of winter conquered by life.

Cycles exclusive to nature, independent from human atrocity.

One chance annuals, perennial, life is not.

Death found in nature, Murder simply is not.

Lives fleeting like fir needles, Falling to the ground without notice to their fatal.

Life and death coexist; tender, lime buds, violet lilacs’ odor, amongst the remnants of death.

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DINA, GERMANY

Life and freedom mocking from the same side as the horror.

Made up

OBERSTEIN, USA

MADISON

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FINDLA, USA FINDLAY, USA

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EDWARD HERB HANDS

BY GENEVIEVE VAHL

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e approach a large building with white columns and tall ceilings. Bleak — like the rest of former East Germany. It took Olivia, Devin and I two metros and a mile-long walk to arrive at the performance art piece we were recommended.

Walking through the entrance, I am spritzed with herbal water: mint, cilantro and parsley steeped in water blessing my arrival. A group of about 50 people sit in a half circle, attention on the artist as he cuts the ends off herb bundles — the source of our baptismal mist. He stacks them very intentionally, placing each as if to lay to rest.

We take our seats, quickly realizing we’ve arrived late. Droning, beat altering ambient music swaddles us.

For 15 minutes, I lose myself in concentration. The repetition of his task hypnotizes our focus, our eyes glazing over, our brains quieting. Then, a tap on my shoulder.

“You can join now.”

A sleek man with golden skin, a buzz cut and piercing blue eyes squats next to me. I look at my two friends. They giggle in confusion, oblivious to his seriousness.

“Pardon?” I inquire.

“You can join now,” he says again, as if granting a privilege.

His airy voice, soft expression and gentle poise reminds me of a monarch butterfly fulfilling his tasks while seeming to billow in the breeze with grace and elegance. Kindness and beauty. His purity pierces like a monarch’s suction, but absorbs me like the pollen itself.

He holds something for us.

I reach out immediately. My friends hesitantly follow. The peaceful proctor puts two white rubber bands on each of our wrists. With his work finished, he flutters away through the crowd.

Olivia, Devin and I look at each other, questioning what we’re about to get into.

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The music continues to shake my body as we move to stand in a circle. The artist explains his performance: a ritual we are all participating in. A moving mediation he will lead us through. A time for us to put everything outside the room to rest.

Forty five minutes of total presence. He instructs us to grab two bundles of herbs and return to our places.

“Attach the bundles to your hands using the rubber bands. One band at the knuckles, the other at the wrist: you should be able to palm it.” The room fills with rustling of bushels, snapping rubber bands against skin, questions muttered quietly.

“These are your new hands,” the artist says.

“Look at your hands. Get to know your new hands.

Feel yourself, get comfortable with your body in these new hands.” I touch my face, I hug myself, stuff my nose into my fragrant grip. Everyone wiggles. Rubbing dewy herbs over ourselves, smiling at one another, glowing with vulnerability.

“Now that you are familiar with your new hands, we begin.”

We are instructed to put our heads on our neighbors’ backs. Ear to spine we attach — our comfort with these strangers multiplying by the second. Bent over at the waist, we next extend

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our arm forward on top of that of our supporting neighbor, forming a connected wreath of herb people.

“Now hum.”

We waken our vocal boxes. A room of 50 strangers leaning on one another erupts in a roar of vocal cord vibrations. The woman supporting me harmonizes her hum to the collective. I close my eyes, locking into her hum alone.

Our warbles are quieted. We rise, back to standing in our circle, all feeling a little more understood. A tone had been set — literally.

We split our circle into two lines, each person in line with another across from us; our partners for the remaining time. I lock eyes with my partner, a woman from England named Lauren, entrusting vulnerability in her as she returns it back to me.

“One of you is the giver, one of you is the receiver,” the artist continues. “Both people will fulfill both roles, so it doesn’t matter who goes first.”

I start as the receiver; Lauren as the giver.. She wears a small beanie, cuffed above the ears. Long strands of hand-strung beads twirl with her every move. Gems and sequins decorate the cap.

The artist leads us through movement and

“Receivers, bite the herbs.” I bite the bushel.

Pure. Raw. Moist. I chew the herbs, digest the herbs: one with the herbs. My eyes, closed. My feet, grounded — cemented. The droning ambience still controls my breath and rhythm, feeling only the shifting air from Lauren’s intentional movements.

My brain is finally at rest, everything on mute to let the moment envelop me.

Then... A thud. Noises out of character for the depth we have submitted to the meditation shift around me. Confused, I open my eyes. Concerned faces and worried energy scurry past me. My dear Devin has passed out behind me.

Shocked, I freeze. Devin lies on the ground. Head cocked, eyes wide open. I can’t move. She has a knocker on her forehead the size of an egg. I have never seen a body react so instantaneously. I feel

as paralyzed as Devin looks there on the ground.

I quickly snap into reality. Olivia and I are Devin’s only people in this situation — the only ones here for her, in a different country where we do not speak the native language. As I look at her aesthetically terrifying wound, fight or flight kicks in.

We get Devin ice and space. We gently thank the artist and group for the experience, and remove ourselves to fresh air. A doctor from the audience coaches us, convincing us the lump on Devin’s forehead is better than no reaction. A concussion left the three of us spooked yet relieved by the support we found.

People are good. People want to help, they care.

We were with the best group of people possible in such a startling situation. They turned out with support, wanting to help us get Devin feeling stable again. Without them, the situation would not have been held together as calmly and smoothly as it was.

I am thankful for people — for their understanding of the social good. Because we all hope people will turn out for us when we are in a dire situation, too.

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PATZK, FIJI

meditation. The givers shift energies around the receivers. They touch us receivers with their herb hands, up and down our bodies, moving from faces to knees. I feel the air moving around me. Fanning, then touch. Smeared. Lauren squishes my face with her botanical hands. Strong yet gentle. Firm yet respectful. We fall into an experience: that of respect. The giver and receiver trusting each other enough to fall into the moment together.

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SPAIN

AY, U SA

VAHL ,

FIND L

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SKOR B

, GRE ECE

, HUN GARY

USCH

JANN

EL LUGAR QUE NUNCA ESPERÉ QUE ME GUSTARÍA

BY MEGAN JANSSEN

E

spaña es conocida por tener algunos de los lugares más hermosos del mundo, desde la Sagrada Família de Barcelona hasta la Alhambra de Granada hasta la Plaza de España de Sevilla y mucho más. Por lo tanto, es difícil explicar a otros por qué algunos de mis tiempos favoritos estudiando en el extranjero en España se pasó subterránea.

Pasé mucho tiempo en el Metro de Madrid.

Vivía en el lado opuesto de la ciudad de mi universidad, haciendo mi viaje diario muy largo.

El metro puede ser caótico, lleno de gente, caliente y abrumador, pero también puede ser un lugar para pausar en el momento.

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Para mí, el metro era...

El lugar donde practiqué mi español escuchando todas las conversaciones.

El lugar donde leí las noticias españolas cada mañana.

El lugar donde conversé con mi compañero de cuarto a camino a la universidad.

El lugar donde mis amigas y yo nos reunimos durante el fin de semana (y también los día de semana), de camino a las discotecas o al piso de una amiga.

El lugar donde las personas sin hogar pidieron ayuda financiera.

El lugar donde casi me quedé dormida regresando del aeropuerto después de un viaje.

El lugar donde escuché una y otra vez el locutor decir “Estación en curva. Al salir, tengan cuidado para no introducir el pie entre coche y andén.”

El lugar donde casi me robaron la cartera.

El lugar al que fuimos a las 6 de la mañana cuando se abrió para ir a la casa después de una noche larga con mis amigos españoles.

El lugar donde salté sobre el torniquete cuando

mi tarjeta de metro expiró.

El lugar donde me sentía cada vez menos como una turista y más como una local.

Sobre todo, el metro era un lugar que nunca esperé que me gustaría. Rápidamente me di cuenta de que algunas de las cosas que me echo de menos son lo que muchos pensarían mundano, pero los lugares que contienen algunos de mis recuerdos favoritos, sin embargo. Por lo extraño que suene cuando la gente me pregunta sobre mis cosas favoritas de mi tiempo en el extranjero en un país con tanta belleza natural, siempre incluyo mi tiempo pasado subterránea.

Para mííi el metro era…. . .

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FOSTER, SPAIN

El lugar a donde llegué tarde a mi camino al aeropuerto.

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CARROLL, ITALY

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CARROLL, ITALY

THE POWER OF AN OLD-FASHIONED LETTER

BY ALLISON STRECKENBACH

T

here is something about the moment when you realize your mailbox is not entirely bills and advertisements. A plain white envelope with hastily-scrawled words somehow has the power to lift a small amount of stress off of your shoulders. The world pauses for a moment as you grin at your name staring back at you in the penmanship of someone you miss, a bright postage stamp in the corner taunting you from faraway places.

The worries and to-do lists bumbling around in your head subside briefly, and all you can think of is how much you want to tear into the flimsy paper holding you back from your connection. When you finally get to sit down and slide your finger along the long edge, opening up a world of possibilities, you can no longer contain your excitement.

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You hungrily read — laughing at memories, coffee stains and misspelled words.

You close your eyes to envision the picture that is being painted for you, and only you.

You can feel the energy of your friend in every stroke of the pen — in every joke, every slang word whose meaning you must pause to recall. You may not have seen your friend in months, but you feel them here with you now. You feel the hole they ripped in the paper in their haste, how they wrote in the light of a single fluorescent bulb during a latenight study break. You flow through the stories, following the increasingly slanted writing until you find yourself saying goodbye again. They wrote it weeks ago, but for you it is fresh. It is alive. It is love. It is joy — and it is yours.

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CARROLL, ITALY

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VAHL, SPAIN

FALL 2019

DINNER WITH THE LUZZETTIS

BY FIONA QUINN

I

t had been one week since my parents had arrived. We had toured what felt like every corner of Florence and even ventured off to Cinque Terre for the weekend. But they had yet to experience an integral part — perhaps the most integral part — of my time here in Florence.

They had not met my host family.

And for some reason, I felt a bit anxious as the day we would dine with the Luzzettis approached.

Before the dinner, I could not pin the source of my apprehension in bringing together two groups I felt immense love and appreciation for. But after some thought, the reason seemed quite

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simple. The family that welcomed me into their home was meeting the people who raised me. I was the only common entity between these complete strangers. The stakes felt high. What if the language barrier resulted in a total lack of communication?

What if the conversations felt calculated and awkward?

It did not take long for my nerves to be put to rest; as I walked in with my parents following close behind, we were welcomed to a beautifully decadent set table in the dining room, and three platters of antipasti to start off the ensuing three-hour dining experience.

Like so many times before, my host family seamlessly established food as a comfort and a way of communicating with my parents. Though I should have known they would go to such tremendous measures in welcoming my parents, I was somewhat surprised and incredibly touched by their efforts. With each plate, the conversations became more fluid.

We ate a primo piatto of pici pasta with baccala, followed by branzino, which they filleted at the table for us. Michele poured wine and continuously apologized for his poor English skills, while my parents assured him they were worse off saying, “We’re in your country. The fault is ours!” As if I dreamt it all up, it felt sudden that my parents and my host parents were sharing a meal and each other’s company as if they had always known one another.

As we gobbled our red wine poached pears with strawberries and vanilla gelato from what

the Luzzettis regard as “the best gelateria in Italy,” Michele revealed a bottle of Rosé Champagne, handed it to me to open, and proceeded to toast to my parents’ time in Italy.

It still slightly puzzles me how warm and welcoming my host family has been with me, a stranger! And just as our relationship was built over daily dinners, my parents began to familiarize themselves with my host parents in the same way — over a meal. It is clear that Italians use food to express their love for others, but it seems to be innately within the Italian culture to welcome those unfamiliar. It dawned on me after my parents left: the Luzzettis taught me much more than the Italian language, but also an approach to strangers I will carry with me through all my future endeavors. And for that, I am forever indebted to them.

CARROLL ORIGINAL PRINT, ITALY

FALL 2019

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FALL 2019

WASSERMAN, SOUTH AFRICA

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LOSING CALIFORNIA GURL

BY LILY OBERSTEIN

W

hen “California Gurls” by Katy Perry came out in 2010, I knew it was about me. I was THE California Girl. And sure, at the tender age of 11, I didn’t know what Katy meant when she sang about ‘melting your popsicle,’ but I had sun kissed skin and felt pretty fine, fresh and fierce.

Then, I packed up my San Francisco Giant hats and moved across the country to New York City. Right after the move, I remained pretty Californian. I talked like a Valley girl, wrote notes back and forth with my West Coast friend, Emily, and continued to wear Uggs with shorts.

But most importantly, I was still a Califorian because my grandparents were still there and I could always go back to see them.

Back then, I would go back and look at the beautiful views of San Francisco from my grandparents’ house on the hill. I watched planes take off at SFO from their porch with my dad.

I drove to visit old friends with my brother. I went to the chocolate store with my Grandpa and shopped at Hillsdale Mall with my Gram.

I took day trips to Half Moon Bay and went in the waves, even though Gram kept telling me the Pacific was too cold.

But soon, I stopped writing back and forth with Emily and eventually threw out my Uggs after my toes started poking out the front.

When I did go visit, the flights stopped being about coming back to see old friends or to go on adventures. Instead, each flight became a long and restless six hours. And then, one day, the flight back was for my grandfather’s funeral. When he died, the house on the hill felt emptier and my visits to the Golden State had significantly fewer trips to the chocolate shop.

But I still came back and had the same shopping adventures with Gram. I still had long hours in her house watching the planes take off and land from her porch. Until I got the phone call that she, too, had passed away.

After her funeral, the house on the hill seemed to be falling down. All of the planes seemed to be flying away, and none coming back.

I sat with my brother writing a eulogy on the same porch where we used to throw parties and watch the planes.

As my dad drove me to my flight back to Wisconsin from the San Francisco airport in the middle of the night, I couldn’t help thinking that not only was I losing family — I was losing a place. California wasn’t home anymore. And now it isn’t a place that I want to go back to. And I may never sit on that porch again. And even if I go back, I won’t be that same “California Gurl” that I was nine years ago.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF SANDY AND BARRY OBERSTEIN 48 SOUVENIRS

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BARKER, USA

FALL 2019

WAY DOWN THERE

BY ALICE COUTEILLE Way down there, where the water is swirling and smooth, We ran across and jumped in and sun bathed and leaped off and glided back and ate warm jam, cheese, carrots and chewed and looked at one another and squinted into the water.

We watched people pose for photos and read magazines, take off their sandals.

Way down there where the water laps at the pale rocks, constant and playful; it feels farther than I remember.

We walked back, hot and drowsy with sand still stuck in my shoes.

Way down there, in the south of France, there is still sand stuck in my shoes

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FALL 2019

51

SEXTON, FRANCE

THE SIDE OF THE PATH

BY EMMA LIVERSEED

I am sailing down Vail Pass, the 10,666-foot-high mountain pass in the Rocky Mountains. It is mile eight. I’m thankful to be biking down the mountain and not up it, as I’d seen some more serious bikers attempting to do. The steeper portions of the path make me feel like I might fly over my handlebars. As exhilarating as it is to zip down the pass brakefree, I make sure I slow down to enjoy the scenery.

I see a stream up ahead, so I get off my bike and pull it to the side of the path. Cold water purls around the large rocks in the stream.

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All around me, the pine trees stand tall, stretching towards the sky. It is mid-August, and the wildflowers are in full bloom, dappling the mountainside with pockets of radiance. I want to soak in every second of it. It is easy to be transfixed by the Rocky Mountains, and I feel incredibly lucky to be here.

As I get back onto my bike, I think about how traveling often makes you pull over to the side of the road. Maybe you’re just stopping

to ask for directions, or maybe a beautiful scene compelled you to pause. This pause rarely occurs in daily life, when we’re rushing to and from work or class. I enjoy traveling because it grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me out of my routine— it shows me how diverse and rich and full the world is, and it reminds me not to forget it. Travel allows us to pause and reflect, while simultaneously

The second gift of travel is getting to experience it with your loved ones. I still remember the first big trip my parents took me and my sister on— I was 5 years old and we went to the shell beaches of Sanibel Island, Florida. Despite the fact that I was so young, the

details of the trip hold strong in my memory. On that trip, vivid images — of counting camouflaged geckos on a tree trunk and tirelessly searching for sand dollars — still stand out in my mind.

This visit to Colorado marks the beginning of the end of my undergraduate time.

In half a month, I’ll start my senior year of college. Going on

this trip has made me realize how travel experiences tend to mark each year of my life.

Sixteen years after that first vacation to Sanibel Island, many trips throughout the U.S. and seventeen countries later, traveling has, without a doubt, shaped me into who I am today. It has built my confidence. It has challenged me. It has made me stop to look at the mountains, and for that I am grateful.

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POWERS, CANADA

pushing us to experience new places and people. This is the first gift of travel.

JANQUART, SPAIN

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FALL 2019

PATZKE, NEW ZEALAND

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