Firenze: Old Souls in New Forms

     Disembarking from the train in Florence was like stepping into a whole new world after Milan. We'd both fallen asleep after leaving the city, despite Abbie's determination to stay awake and write. I woke up in the dark of the Bologna train station, our approximate half way point. After that, the train, which was a high speed train (we had not realized this when we bought the tickets, otherwise we would have understood why they were so expensive and probably gone to look for other options) dashed in and out of tunnels, giving me glimpses of the Tuscan countryside. Outside Milan had looked just like Iowa. The fleeting teasers of Tuscany looked nothing like Iowa. So it was with a light heart, if heavy eyes, that I stepped out into Florence.
Now, Florence has done a lot of things right. It's a beautiful city, with a wonderful heritage that stretches back centuries and houses the works of some of the greatest artists who have ever lived. The city seems to be proud of this, and rightly so. They have put great effort into preserving the atmosphere of what was once the city of the Medici's. Except for the train station. The train station is a remnant of the 1950's with it's cement blocks, rounded corners, and windowless facades. We were ever so slightly dismayed, but our dismay quickly turned to awe as we rounded the corner of a church courtyard and found ourselves in the Piazza Santa Maria Novella. The square has everything a square should have: a fountain, a church, green space, and benches. The church is clearly the centerpiece, but the surrounding buildings hold their own as well. It was beautiful.

     The sun was shining, and all of the sudden we were undeniably in Italy. We could see the top of the Duomo as we wandered around the various streets trying to find our hostel, before stumbling upon it far closer to the square than we had thought possible. We climbed the three flights of stairs, checked in, and dumped our bags onto the twin beds they'd assigned to us. We looked askance at the shower standing casually in the corner of the room, the only barrier being the semi-opaque glass of the shower itself. Abbie went to the bathroom and came back with a sigh of relief. "There are normal showers in there. With doors.", she said. And with that, we left the hostel, diving back into the Tuscan sun.

     Our plan was, as it tends to be, fairly vague. We knew we wanted to see the Duomo, and the Medici Chapel, etc., but we didn't have a set route we were going to follow, or certain streets to walk down. If we had, we would have lost out on some beautiful moments. We had managed to get a hold of a free map on one of the brochures advertising Tuscan day-trips, and with little more than: "Let's go there!", we began our Florentine adventures. 

     Since our appetite for the cathedral with the famous dome had been whetted by the brief glimpses we'd had of it on our search for the hostel, and because we knew roughly in which direction it lay, we decided to start there. As we scrambled around construction scaffolding and around tour groups, watching the Dome gradually become larger, I became more and more giddy. 

     It didn't take long, and before we realized just how close we were, we rounded a corner, and my jaw dropped. The corner we had just rounded opened up onto the piazza in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. The Duomo, as it is more commonly known, was gigantic. From where we stood it looked like it could never possibly end. But not only was it huge, it was decorated in the most elaborately detailed geometric designs I've ever seen on a building. The entire thing. Many of the churches in Florence had rough exteriors with an elaborately decorated fronting. Not this one. It's the real deal, from the tip of the dome to the lowliest cornerstone. Not that the other churches aren't spectacular as well, but this cathedral is in a category of it's own. We stood there for several long minutes, both of us tipping our heads to the sky, searching vainly for some limit to this spectacular building. It's overpowering, yet welcoming, a symbol of strength, but as delicate as a piece of lace. 

And then we went inside. As intricate and overwhelming as the exterior was, the interior was atmospheric and wholly awe-inspiring. It was almost simple. Unlike the Gothic arches of Notre Dame, the lines were clean, uninterrupted. The floor tiling was detailed, creating an illusion of swirling lines underneath the soaring ceiling. There was a massive 24 hour clock right underneath the stained glass window, and paintings over all the walls. As I moved deeper into the thick air of the cathedral, the underside of the dome slowly came into view, and my breath caught with anticipation. Finally, I tilted my head all the way back, and almost fell over backwards. From the center of the circle underneath the dome, it looks like a flat painting. All the sudden, I realized why the rest of the interior was so clean. If there was any more carving or sculptures, this spectacular dome would be lost in the chaos. As we made our way back out into the sunshine, the calm, damp air of the cathedral carried me out back into the hustle and bustle of Florence, and I knew this was a building I would never forget.

     For the rest of the day we wandered around the city, circling around mysterious green domes, inadvertently wandering into workaday Florence. We passed through the neglected Piazza Del'Annunziata, rested on a bench in Piazza San Marco, and met up with David. Finally, we walked through the Uffizi gallery and landed near Ponte Vecchio on the banks of the Arno, with late afternoon light slanting over the colorful shops sticking out from over the sides of the bridge. Abbie's smiles shone and our laughter echoed as we leaned over the river, straining to hear the water over the traffic immediately behind us. Even after a day in the sun, it was still hard to believe we were really here, really in Italy. We made our way back along the banks of the river and back to our piazza for gelato which we ate as the sun sank behind the ring of buildings. We turned in early, tired from our first day of vacation, but beyond ready for the next one.

     Day 2 began with the hostel breakfast, a smorgasbord of cereal, bread, cheese, croissants, and brightly colored juices. It was cheap and surprisingly delicious. That day we were planning to visit the Medici chapel with the Michelangelo sculptures and wander the other side of the Arno, beginning with climbing the hill to Piazelle Michelangelo and see the city we'd been exploring from above. So that's what we did. The chapel, which was one of the only things we paid for on this trip, was gorgeous. There's the main chapel with marble walls soaring to the ceiling (another dome) which is painted with an odd assortment of Bible stories. There was construction going on, which was a little disappointing, but I'd rather restore it now than not have it later. Plus, it was still one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. Then, Abbie giddy with excitement, we moved into the smaller chapel where several of the Medici's are buried surrounded by Michelangelo sculptures. I'd never been so close to one before, and it really did seem like they could come to life. It was astounding. We then briefly detoured back to the Duomo for a Charlie attempt which fell apart as stubborn tourists felt the need to stand directly in front of all the trash cans I wanted to use. We vowed to return and continued on.
     We wandered into the Piazza Santa Croce almost by accident, and were pleasantly surprised by what we found there. The church looks remarkably similar to Santa Maria Novella, with a giant statue of Dante outside. The buildings around the square were painted with faded frescoes, and the colors exploded into the bright sunlight. We both took off our jackets, reveling in the warmth we'd been missing in Paris and Bratislava. The best thing about the piazza though, was how genuine it felt. It's a famous church with frescoes by Giotto inside, but the throngs around the Duomo were almost entirely absent. But it was more than the absence of tourists that made it feel real. There were people living in those frescoed buildings, and it was easy to see how. There was so much life, you couldn't help wanting to join in and be a part of it.
     After crossing the river, we began the climb up to the Piazelle. The path zig-zagged up the hill, giving us teasing glances of the views we'd see when we did finally get to the top. And then we did, and it was beyond words. The entire city was laid out before us, with the Duomo and tower of the Palazzo Vecchio soaring into the air. The hills around the city created a cradle which has nourished so much genius it was hard to comprehend. A bright blue sky arched above the whole city, with hardly a cloud. It was easy to imagine how the Medici's could have thought they ruled the world, standing up here, looking down at the maze-like city streets. We stood there in silence for several minutes, each lost in thought, not needing to share any of this quite yet.
     When we did finally break out of our trance, we giggled through several pictures, then moved further into what was essentially a parking lot. The view is what brings people here, not the setting. Moving further up the hill we spotted a church and decided to head in that direction. Another set of stairs later, we once again stared down in awe at Florence before turning our attention to the church of San Miniato del Monte. It was (and maybe still is) a monastery, so the grounds around the church are full of extravagant tombstones. Once again, the facade was eerily similar to the others we'd seen that day, but there was nothing to compare to the inside. It's a small church, but the reverence I'd felt in the Duomo quickly shrunk to admiration. This was a real church. The air was so thick it almost felt smoky, and the sun shining through the windows created paths down to the tiled floor. The altar glowed with a quiet light. Frescoes lined the walls, with one unfinished painting at the far end. Behind the altar, and down a short, steep set of stairs was a crypt. Our footsteps broke into the thick silence, and I felt almost intrusive. We lingered there, slowly making our way through the church. When we did finally leave, I was startled by seeing Florence laid out before me. I had completely forgotten where we were.
     Our next destination was the Boboli Gardens, tucked away behind Pitti Palace. Well, we found the palace, but couldn't figure out where the gardens were. We found the buildings where Elizabeth Barret Browning and Fyodor Dostoevsky had lived, but still no gardens. Finally we rounded a corner going the correct direction, and ended up facing a closed gate. The Italian guys who had turned the same corner right before us volubly informed us that the gardens were closed. We then proceeded to spend quite a lot of time attempting to find our way into the garden, most of which consisted of wandering up and down narrow streets on a significant incline. Finally, our legs already tired from having climbed the giant hill earlier that day, and all the walking since then, we gave up and began searching for a place to have dinner instead. We later found out that the gardens are not only closed on the fourth Monday of each month, which this was, but also that they cost 7 euro to get into, which is absurd. The Uffizi costs less than that. So it was probably a good thing we hadn't ever found it, because we probably would have felt obligated to pay considering how much effort we would have expended getting there.

     The restaurant we ate at that night ended up being back on our own little square. We each ordered a pizza, hers with mozzarella and basil, mine with eggplant and zucchini, a pleasant surprise. It was the most delicious pizza I have ever eaten in my life. After dinner, we walked back to the river and perched on the edge of one of the bridges to watch the sunset. As we talked, Florence buzzed around us and the sun slowly turned the buildings golden, then purple, and finally they were nothing but silhouettes against the Easter egg sky. Despite the chilliness of the post-dusk air, we stopped and got gelato before turning in for the night.
     Florence was astounding. It was beautiful, yes, but it was compelling as well. It invited you to come in and stay a little. It was colorful and warm, even in February. It was a city that was Florence but also Florence. It seemed very livable, as long as you could escape the tourists during the summer. The charm of the city was not only it's beauty or it's history, but also it's present. It pulls you in, makes you feel at home. The frescoes on the walls, the innumerable churches, the winding streets and the hints of Tuscan countryside through a row of buildings, and yes, the crowds of people all speak to what Florence is. But unlike other popular tourist cities, Florence would survive, even thrive, if no one came to see it. Lives would continue on, amidst the shadows of the past, and the city's glorious history remembered, if only by itself.
   

Milano: The Last of the Prose

     I'm sorry. Getting the ball rolling on blogging about Italy has been a long time coming. I had hoped to be much further along by now, instead of still pawing at the gate. As soon as I got home Sunday morning, after an overnight train from Venice to Vienna and then navigating the Vienna Metro before jumping onto a train 5 minutes before it left, I collapsed into bed, and barely left it all day. And then school started, and with it all the work that I hadn't done while I was in Italy on top of all the new stuff I had. And blogging got buried under real life. It's been hard, bringing myself back here to write. Not just because my head is so full that it's exhausting trying to pull it back into the vacation mindset, but because it means I'm not actually on vacation anymore. I'm not in Italy. I'm in Bratislava, living a real life. And as much as I appreciate living a real life, I could definitely have used a little more vacation. But, here goes. Day 1 of Italy: Milan.
     My trip to Italy began with a very early morning in Bratislava. What with needing to be at the airport by 7am after a half hour bus trip, and the necessity of leaving things in reasonably good order at the flat, I got about 5.5 hours of sleep, so I was exhausted. I almost nodded off on the bus several times. Checking in and going through security at the Bratislava airport at 7 in the morning is easily the smoothest, quickest airport experience I've ever had. There were no lines, less waiting, and even less stress. Airports and flying are not my favorite things in the world, so I was very grateful to have this trip start out on a good note. As I watched the sun rise over the mountains surrounding Bratislava I smiled, knowing how lucky I was to be living my life in that exact moment.
     It was a very uneventful flight; I slept the entire way to Bergamo, a town about 45 km outside Milan with an airport that has become increasingly popular with budget airlines like Ryanair. From the airport, I caught a bus into the city center. Now, my first view of Italy had been of the foothills of the mountains (which we Minnesotans would call actual mountains), on which Bergamo perches. I was so caught off guard with eyes blinking blearily in the light, that I actually gasped upon exiting the plane and realizing where I was. That awe lasted for about 5 minutes after getting on the bus. Once we left the vicinity of the airport and were well on our way through the town of Bergamo, Italy deteriorated quickly.
     I always forget that Italy, like most other countries, has modernized relatively quickly over the past 150 years or so, and even more quickly since World War II. And if I can't remember that, how could I be expected to remember that the majority of this industrialization happened in the north? Well, I don't think I'm ever going to forget that again. The bus ride from Bergamo to Milan was one of the least picturesque trips I've ever experienced. The towns were squat little collections of concrete blocks built around factories with smokestacks hundreds of feet tall. The countryside consisted of brownish, greyish grass surrounding ramshackle huts. I was not enchanted.
     We finally got to Milan's central train station and I disembarked from the bus into the relatively balmy air, ready to face 7 hours alone before meeting Abbie's train right back here. I had planned to drop by the hostel first and leave my things there, but I realized on the bus that were I to get anywhere in the vicinity of a bed, I would fall asleep, not see any of Milan at all, and have to make two round trips on the Metro with nothing to show for it. So instead I stored my luggage at the train station and ventured out into the city without a map.
     Here's what I liked about Milan: the people. In the first park I found, there were teenagers hanging out on benches, young parents taking their children on walks or bike rides, people of all ages trailing behind dogs, readers absorbed in books, and shopkeepers selling flowers from newsstands at the corners. They all seemed so happy to be outside, as if this was one of the first nice days of the year (as it very well could have been. It was still February.). So as I sat reading Of Mice and Men, I soaked in the ambiance of the Milanese people who were real enough to spend their Saturdays in the park instead of at stores.
     So here's what I didn't like about Milan: nearly everything else. Although part of the problem may have stemmed from my not having a map, I did not see much to appreciate in Milan. The streets were nondescriptly European, with soaring metal skyscrapers peering above the lovely, but lowly older buildings. The city seemed dirty, unkempt, and not at all inviting. It seemed generic. Nothing about it proclaimed "this is Milan". Instead, it vaguely asserted something along the lines of "Remember me, people visiting Rome and Florence and Venice? I'm here too". It had a kind of desperation, mixed with reluctant resignation to second-class status, at least in terms of beauty.
     Though the city may not be "bristling with the aesthetic impulse", there were some lovely moments. The parks I wandered into were beautiful, and some of the churches were photo-worthy, but very little else really caught my attention. I wasn't really surprised. Milan is not somewhere I ever really wanted to go, and had very few expectations about. The only thing that I'd heard was worth seeing was the Duomo, which I somehow managed not to see, and the stores, which I couldn't afford even if I was the kind of person to spend their vacation shopping. So with my low expectations, I was even a little pleasantly surprised by the places that did make me smile.
     I was not, however, pleasantly surprised enough to want to spend more than one day there. This may have been compounded by the fact that I was tired, hungry, and lonely. I do not do well travelling on my own. My natural reserve becomes full-blown timidity, and I find myself paralyzed. All my thoughts get stuck in my head without someone to share them with, and I start feeling overwhelmed by everything I'm thinking, feeling, and wanting to say out loud. Obviously, the degree to which this interferes with my enjoyment of a place differs on the location, but it was definitely a factor in Milan. The entire time I was walking around, I was counting down the hours until I could reasonably head back to the station to meet Abbie. When I finally did turn myself that direction, I realized I was immersed in the crowd of Saturday shoppers along what seemed to be one of the busiest shopping streets in Milan. I was not amused.
     Then finally, finally her train was pulling up to the platform, and even though I scanned the faces of everyone getting off the train, I was still surprised by her sudden appearance. We shared a massive hug, both of us grateful to see a face from home, a friend we knew so well we didn't have to try anymore. We just had to be. It was such a relief.
     Henry James, in his Italian Hours, a collection of essays about the time he spent in Italy, says this about Milan: "in it's general aspect still lingers a northern reserve which makes the place rather perhaps  the last of the prose capitals than the first of the poetic". I completely agree with him, although I don't fully understand where he's drawing the line between prosaic and poetical capitals. No one in their right mind could call Paris prosaic, so it can't be north to south. But that's not really the point. The point is that the city seemed like very little more than just a city. Some places call out to you, reach out their arms and drag you into them. Paris did that. So did London, and Prague, even, to some extent, Bratislava, once I realized what it really had to offer. Milan did not. Nothing about Milan attracted me to it or made me want to stay there. Abbie felt exactly the same way, so we were grateful our reservations kept us there for only one night.
     We found our hostel after zig-zagging back and forth along the same street for what seemed like forever because the directions from the hostel told us to orient ourselves using the entrance to the subway. There were four entrances to the subway, so that was not so helpful. But we did get there, and immediately collapsed into our beds, getting up only to pay. The next morning, we made it back to the train station, purchased unreasonably expensive train tickets to Florence, and were off on our Italian adventure.

Prelude

     Florence, Verona, Venice. Those evocative names have floated through my brain as long as I can remember. Italy, that land of history, culture, romance, knowledge, art, empires, conquests, downfalls, and rebirths. It's one of those countries that needs to be on everyone's bucket list because, let's face it, so much of who we are as a culture, as a world, sprang from it's soil. What would Europe be like without the Roman Empire or the Medici's? Or art without Michelangelo or DaVinci? Or poetry without Dante? You can't not want to see where all that greatness came from. Also, it's really, incredibly beautiful.
     So when Abbie and I decided to take our joint Spring Break trip there, I was so excited. We planned out an itinerary: meeting up in Milan, then three days in Florence, two and a half in Padua, and one and half in Venice. This gave us time to see the cities themselves as well as take day trips, which we figured we'd decide on in the moment. And we went. And it was magical.
     I'm back in Bratislava now, in my own bed, surrounded by the purple walls I've started to call home, at least for now; and I'm so grateful. I miss Abbie. I miss the warmth which is not a part of the Slovak character. I miss not having to think about school. But as I emerged from the train station into the sunlight filtering through the concrete towers of Petrzalka, I let out a sigh of relief. It was wonderful to be on the road, to carry everything I needed on my back, but it was an exhausting trip, and I was ready to cook again. To unpack. To spend more time learning about the country I've chosen as my home this spring.
     Italy took the breath from my lungs, and my heart out of my chest. It surprised me, made me smile, awed me. At times I wanted to throw myself into the Tuscan countryside without a backward glace, to float along a river to the sea. I longed to eat nothing but pasta, pizza, and gelato. I felt like soaring in the clouds with the angels depicted in all those domes. I wanted to be a part of the daily life of the Duomo, to give the smallest part of myself to the stones. So much about Italy enchanted me.
     But Italy was challenging as well. She made me think; about preservation, about truth, and yes, about life. There were moments I wanted to shake her, to make her see what she has turned into. Other times, I wanted to bring the entire country into my embrace, in thanks, appreciation, and in comfort.
     Perhaps most importantly, Italy made me think. I learned so much about it's history, it's culture, it's modernity. And yes, I also learned more about myself. That is what travel is really for, in my opinion: to learn about the world and your place in it.
     And though I know it's impossible to share experiences with anyone else, I'm going to do my best to let you into my head and my shoes as I wandered around the Italian countryside with Abbie. I'll be posting updates as quickly as I can, with one post per city. But in the immortal words of Levar Burton, don't take my word for it. If any of what I say intrigues you, go! If you can't go, read books. Look at pictures. Search for your own answers. Find your inspiration, and chase after it with everything you have.
     Are you ready?

School Days

     So, I know this has been a long time coming, and I'm sorry. I'm going to do my best to squeeze two weeks of a very, very steep learning curve into a readable post while giving a realistic impression about how I'm doing. It would be very easy to sell myself short or sound overconfident (and probably also easy to do both at once), but I don't want to do either. Part of my personal challenge these past few weeks has been to suss out how I actually feel about being here, and hard as it may be, objectivity is paramount.
     My first week was pretty boring, in all honesty. Firstly, the freshmen were all on a ski trip so the class load I was shadowing was basically cut in half. Secondly, it was a weird week where the new semester hadn't quite started yet, but grades had been due for the old one, so teachers were supposed to teach classes without having any graded assignments, which doesn't make any sense at all. But it was helpful to get the lay of the land before I was required to do it all on my own, so I did appreciate that particular opportunity my week of student teaching provided me.
     It was also helpful to find out which courses I would be teaching and have some time to wrap my head around them before I needed to start teaching. I have freshmen for Speaking as well as Literature and Writing, both of which are exactly what they sound like. Speaking is basically a conversational English class, and Literature and Writing involves reading literature, talking about literature, and beginning to learn how to structure simple essays. I have a junior Writing class, which will cover more practical types of writing in English. I'll be teaching them how to write an application letter, a cover letter, a resume, things like that. Academic writing is covered elsewhere. My senior class is called Coursebook. The primary objective of that class is to prepare them for the massively important state leaving exams, the written part of which they will take in March. So for the next 6 weeks we will be drilling grammar, proofreading, and  different styles of writing. After the written portion of the test, we'll be focused on getting them ready for the speaking part which doesn't happen until June, but will require them to speak at length on one of about 20 possible topics covering an array of areas. I don't have a clue about how we're going to work on that part, but I don't have to worry about that right now. Right now I have to make sure they can write a solid piece, use articles correctly, transform words, and complete open cloze exercises, which is at least more objective, if not any easier.
     So after a week of following Ben around and killing time in the English Department office with nothing to do, I finally got in front of a classroom on Tuesday. By that point, I wasn't even worried about whether or not I was going to like teaching, I just wanted to start and be able to stop imagining possible scenarios. And it wasn't that bad! There were absolutely some moments where I thought "what on Earth was I thinking, coming here to teach high school without any training at all? I'm crazy." But there were also moments where I thought: "This isn't that bad. Maybe I'll be able to pull this off!" So could things have gone better? Yes, they could have. However, they also could have gone much, much worse. And I can say I've done it, and there's no way I'm going to get worse with experience. It can only go up from here.
     I'm not a master teacher. I was clear about that in the interview, and I've been clear about it here, although not to the students. I'm going to make mistakes, and throw lessons away, and not be able to deal with problems the most effective way possible. There's just no getting around that. But I am willing to learn. I want to do the best I can, both for the students and for myself. It's going to take work. It's probably also going to take some tears and frustration, but I knew that before I left home. I knew this was going to be a challenge, and there was always a possibility I wouldn't like it. That's still a possibility. But I could also end up loving it. All I can do now is ask questions, try my hardest, put my best foot forward, and fake it 'til I make it.

First Impressions: Bratislava

     I'm going to admit something. I've kind of been avoiding writing this post, for a couple reasons. First of all, I don't have pictures yet of everything I'm going to talk about, and if I had pictures, I wouldn't need to write anything at all. But today was my first day at the school, and I feel that this story needs to be told with some semblance of chronology. Secondly, I'm not really sure how I feel about Bratislava yet, and attempting to put it down on screen was a little intimidating. But it also could be liberating. So settle in. Get some tea or coffee and some chocolate. This could take a while. 
     My plane approached Vienna through a cloud. There was so much fog, that we watched another plane disappear within seconds after taking off. It was a balmy 40 degrees or so, and for the first time in months I wasn't in danger of catching hypothermia within minutes of going outside. Border Patrol was a breeze, and my suitcase was one of the first batch out onto the carousel. As I headed through Customs, I tried to recreate a mental picture of the man I had seen only very briefly on Skype nearly a month before: the principal of the school, and the one picking me up. We found each other relatively quickly and he introduced both himself and his 6 year old son, who told me he felt happy. And sleepy, he added later.
     The car ride through the subdued grey of the outskirts of Vienna and the far eastern countryside of Austria was beautiful. It looked exactly how I imagined modern, small-town Europe would look. There were new buildings, some very modern and shiny, others very referential to the history of the area. The streets were narrow and windy, occasionally threading themselves under old gates and along former city defenses. Poplar trees lined the road, and eerily reminded me of Dachau. But then, all of the sudden, Dusan pointed to the left and said "There's Bratislava Castle."
     And there it was. We were still in Austria, but the castle was right there, perched on top of the hill looking very forboding and fortress-y, but also welcoming; an ironic contrast, I know, but one that would prove to pop up again. Crossing the border was as easy as crossing from Minnesota into Wisconsin. There wasn't even a sign. We did pass some scary looking buildings, but other than that, the only reason I knew we were someplace else was that the language on the signs had switched from German to Slovak.
     Immediately after crossing the border, we were in Bratislava, or at least a suburb of Bratislava. They aren't joking when they say the city borders two countries. It actually borders two countries. You leave Bratislava to the west? Austria. Leaving to the south? Hungary. Mind just a little bit blown. Anyway, we drove through a compound of what Dusan called Commie Condos- big, concrete blocks painted with oddly chosen colors and strewn about like a pile of blocks that's just been knocked over. It was really ugly. And this is where I was going to live. And indeed, we eventually pulled up to one of the blocks, this one with grey and yellow, and hauled my suitcases inside, through the decrepit looking lobby area, into the miniscule elevator, and up to the fifth floor where I was welcomed by both my flatmates.
     The flat itself is actually very nice. We each have our own bedroom, painted by the former occupants who were apparently pre-teen girls judging by the brightness of the color palate they chose. There's a good size living room, very usable dining room table in the entry, and a kitchen that's not absurdly small. Bonus: there is also a balcony off the kitchen. The WC and bathroom are tiny, but how much time should you really spend in there anyway?
     My first excursion was to a Slovak restaurant, where I had halusky- the national dish of Slovakia, and basically the most filling version of macaroni and cheese you can imagine. It was delicious. We then headed to a wine tasting at a bookstore. Unlike wine tastings in the States, there was nothing to spit the wine into, so sampling 12 or 13 types of wine was quite the undertaking. I cut myself off after about three quarter-glasses, and finished off the evening with peppermint tea and water, a much better companion to my jet lag. I met some very nice people, all of them teachers/staff at the school, although if you asked me now what any of their names were, I would not be able to tell you. We left, around 11, as I was about to fall asleep in my chair, and wandered back around quiet little streets before reaching the bus stop which is located on a main drag. And that was ugly too. Maybe it was the dark, or my sleepiness, but at that moment I was severely disappointed with Bratislava.
     However, the next day, after a good night's sleep and the first real, non-airplane food I'd eaten in at least 24 hours, we went back to the main part of town, this time to the Old Town proper. And it was gorgeous. The alleys were properly cobblestoned and winding, with towers and palaces at the ends of them. The buildings were ornate, but not overstated, elegant, but not snobby. It was whimsical, with funny statues of bears and men in three cornered hats leaning over the backs of benches. It's all a pedestrian zone, which is very appealing, and you can see the castle from almost anywhere. And, it's not overrun with tourists and gaudy signs advertising the best Irish pub, like other cities I could mention. I was absolutely enchanted.
     So that's the irony of Bratislava. It's both one of the most lovely places I've ever been, and one of the ugliest. It's old and charming, new and dilapidated. The juxtaposition of the 30 year old crumblings of a failed Communist state, and the majestic pink palace breaks my heart a little bit. Who in their right minds could be so blind as to let a city as beautiful as Bratislava seems to have once been become a mess of concrete blocks? Who thought it would be a good idea to wipe away such a rich history and cover it in cement? I just don't understand.
     In any case, I'm still torn. Peterzalka, the area where I live, is growing on me a little. Now that I've walked around it a bit, it's much less intimidating. Our balcony looks out over a long green lawn, and just on the far side of the next building is a canal with walking paths on both sides. It's not my forest wonderland of Havlickovy Sady, but for now, it might just be enough. Also, it snowed today, and everything looks better with a little dusting of white.

In Transit

     I'm on my way! After leaving my house around 9:15 Thursday morning, I had an uneventful (short) flight to Chicago, and an uneventful (long) flight to London, which is where I am right now, waiting for my plane to Vienna. It's 8:15am here, but in my head it's 2:15, so forgive any nonsense I may put down, I'm a little out of it.
     My last few weeks in Minneapolis were wonderful. Knowing where I was going next definitely made a difference in my mood. I don't like being in limbo, but I'm learning how to deal. I'm ready for things to happen though. I am nervous about this job; I don't know how to be a teacher, and just because I'm an English major with a pretty solid writing background, doesn't mean I'll be able to effectively impart that to eager (or not-so-eager) young minds. But being scared is better than being bored. That's been my mantra, and it's gotten me through some moments of pretty strong doubt. Something my grandfather said really stuck with me as well. When he was 19, newly graduated from college and heading out to an assignment with the Navy, he was nervous about not being able to do what they needed him to do. But then he thought, "Someone gave me a diploma. Someone hired me to do this job. They wouldn't have done that if they didn't think I was capable enough to handle it. So if they're confident in me, I should be too." (Those may not have been his exact thoughts. But you get the idea.)
     The school hired me to do this job, knowing my background, knowing that I'm going to be learning just as much- or more- as I'll be teaching. They know that, and they want me anyway. So, yes, I am nervous. But that's not going to stop me.
     The only real hiccup in the whole process came right at the 11th hour. After zipping my gigantic suitcase shut, full of clothes, and other necessary items, I thought I had forgotten my glasses in the purse I had tucked into the bag (I was wrong, in fact. They were already in my carry on purse.), and needed to open it up to get them out. Only, the zipper wouldn't unzip! I tugged, and Sonja tugged, my mom tugged, and my dad got some tools from the workroom to try and force the thing open. Nothing doing. So Daddy cut it open while Mom and I went to Target, and bought a new suitcase 12 hours before leaving. It was such a stupid problem that it completely took my mind off my nerves. I don't know what I would have done if I got to Bratislava and realized my suitcase wouldn't open. I doesn't even bear thinking about.
     I'm running out of free Wifi, so I should wrap this up. 5 hours from now, I should be in Vienna, maybe even on my way to Bratislava. It's absolutely insane, but completely amazing that this is happening to me. I feel so incredibly lucky. I have some thoughts about what this kind of lifestyle means for people my age, but that's going to have to wait.
     Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers; I would never have gotten here without your love and support.

Arms Outstretched

    Happy 2014! 2013 was a year I will never forget. It began with hearing about the death of a dear friend, included a job I loved, an incredible adventure overseas, huge decisions about how I wanted to live my life, old and new friends, and the loss of both my beloved cat and grandfather. It took me on an emotional roller coaster. It scared, touched, moved, spun, and challenged me. I said goodbye to my kids at Sullivan, with a heart full of love for their eagerness, affection, and appreciation. I left for Prague in August with stars in my eyes. I came home at the end of October, without any idea what the rest of the year was going to look like, much less what I was going to do once the calendars were switched out.
     But that's not entirely true anymore. God's timing has come through yet again. In the middle of December, right when I was starting to think that my goal of going back overseas in January was unachievable, I spoke to a woman from my church who was hosting an exchange student from Bratislava, Slovakia. She said the school in Bratislava (a sister school of Minnehaha Academy here in the Cities) was looking for English teachers. Native English teachers with a degree- no teaching license necessary. So after talking to the student, I decided to contact the school about any possible job openings. About a week and a half later, I had an interview with the head of the English department who said she would like to set something up with the principal. At that interview, the questions about my experience and thoughts on teaching turned into questions like: This is how much we would be paying you. Would that be all right? And: You'd be sharing a flat with a couple other American teachers. Does that sound acceptable? And, finally: Would it be possible for you to get here on the 24th or 25th of January? All of the sudden, I had a job!
     I'm going to be a high school English teacher at a private high school in Bratislava. They already have a literature teacher, so my focus will be primarily on writing. Both people I talked to assured me that the school and the other teachers would help me through my learning curve, never having taught either high schoolers or writing before. I'm going to need lots of guidance, but I'm very excited.
     Bratislava itself, while not one of the blockbuster European cities, still has a lot to offer. In many ways I think it will be a better fit for me and my lifestyle than Prague was. It's small, the population is less than 500,000, and much of the city was rebuilt under Communism, so it doesn't have as much historic charm as other cities might. But I think that's ok. Prague was intimidating, full of so many people that I felt anonymous. There were so many tourists around all the time that it sometimes distracted me from my real life, and made me feel more like a visitor. Bratislava seems less intimidating. I've heard there are lots of nice restaurants and cafes in the old town, there's a castle on the hill, a notable, if not stellar arts scene, a UFO bridge, and a university. It is not the city with the highest beer consumption per capita in the world. It's about an hour to Vienna, less than 3 to Budapest, and less than 5 to Prague. There are mountains and rivers providing numerous opportunities for exploration.
     No, it's not Prague. It's not Paris or Berlin or Rome. But Minneapolis isn't New York, Chicago, or LA, and I love it here. It's home. Obviously, with my not having been there yet, I cannot say whether or not Bratislava will feel more like home to me than Prague did. But after my experiences in Prague, and knowing what I do about Bratislava, I think it has a chance.
     I'm leaving in less than three weeks, and it still hasn't sunken in that I'm really going. Every so often, I'll have a moment of panic where it all comes together in a blinding moment that all this is actually happening, but then I realize, like I did before going to Prague, that it's all right to be scared. It's all right to feel like I don't have a clue. Because I'm going to learn. I'm going to experience new things. I'm pushing away from the dock and leaving the breakwater behind me. It's times like this when I need to remind myself I'm not sailing this ship by myself. I have some of the greatest crew anyone could ask for. So I'll go. I'm ready. Ready to once again throw myself into the world and let the wind carry me across the ocean. I am so excited.