London Love

London was not on my list of top places to visit. I should experience other cultures, I told myself, get out of my comfort zone. The urban center of Great Britain is not that different from America. But you know what? That’s exactly why I enjoyed this past weekend so much. Don’t get me wrong. Italy has been such a fabulous experience. Three months ago I only knew Italian stereotypes. Now I know Italy. I understand the cultural norms, and I have tried to acclimate to them (though whether I really have is a different story).  Culture clash – both in Perugia and during weekend travel – is draining. Mimed body language and late night dinners, catty women and staring men, limited grocery choices and impossibly long (yet simultaneously nonexistent) lines are some of the small differences I face on a daily basis. I think one of the most significant lessons I digested for myself in Cambodia seeing and experiencing the living conditions for the majority of the world. That lesson has continued during my time in Italy. Though Europe is made up of first world countries, even here people don’t live like Americans. These little challenges I face make living abroad memorable and worth it.

As usual, I digress. After a beautiful act of the Lord, the opportunity arose for me to visit London with my dear friend Tracey. No, London is not America, but comparatively, it’s pretty darn close. It is English-speaking, and it is a consumerist, globalized society. I confess, as much as I am trying not to live in a materialistic manner, I grew up surrounded by marketing and movies and Wal-Mart and the best customer service in the world. For one weekend, it was so nice to be able to understand (most) everything someone said and buy anything I wanted.  Familiarity is comfortable. On the bus ride from the airport, I was already developing a superiority complex over my ability to understand the language better than the rest of the Italian travelers. We saw a Costco, IKEA, Subway, KFC, and so many other chains just during our ride into the city. We were stoked.

We vowed not to eat any Italian food. Since there was a different ethnic restaurant every fifty meters, that was easy, and so satisfying. At one stop, I spotted a restaurant named L’artista. While I was repulsed by the idea of yet another pasta dish, the Italian woman next to me points to it and begins talking to her friend about eating there that night!

Spring Bowl

After settling in to Palmer’s Lodge (best hostel experience ever. I am not exaggerating), Tracey and I opted for Indian. The menu was a little overwhelming, so I told the waiter I wanted a dish with rice, chicken, vegetables, and curry, please. When the waiter walked away, Tracey whispered, “Jessica, you are so white.” It’s true… It was very much a When Harry Met Sally scenario, but I was just so happy to be able to get what I wanted and not be told how to eat my food. The supermarkets are even bigger in London than in America, and there’s nothing you can’t get. Other food this past weekend included Chinese pile up from a Camden Market stall, Vietnamese Spring Bowl, Lebanese platter, coffee large enough to nurse for a bit, Mochi icecream (gross), and a Chinese BBQ roll. My stomach has been missing vegetables so much, and it is happy now.

Globalization continued that night when we realized that the second Hunger Games movie was already released. It was fun both to be up on American culture and also act like typical Londoners, enjoying a normal Friday night. The next day we went to the Camden Markets, which provide anything you want at very cheap prices. It is dangerous territory for shopoholics. All of the stuff and the fashionable people wearing even more stuff sends this subliminal message that you need it. I kept reminding myself that no, I don’t need anything. I have everything already. Remember where these goods are coming from, Jessica. Imagine how they were probably produced. The quintessential consumerist devil and aesthetic angel were fighting it out on my shoulders. Mr. Red Horns did win the Battle of Wool, boasting a thick infinity scarf and a Fedora as its loot. The angel won the War, though, re-teaching me an important lesson.

The rest of the weekend was fairly touristy. We saw the sights, killed our feet walking everywhere, and enjoyed some rejuvenation in Regent’s Park. There was green and fall colors, and that did my heart well. My soul was filled up even more after Tracey and I visited Hillsong for church on Sunday. I haven’t been able to really worship since the summer. I haven’t been in a spiritual drought, but I needed some watering. That night, we watched an improv show at The Comedy Stand. My cheeks were sore from all the laughing. Gosh. British Humor – they’re just so clever! We finished up the weekend by almost missing our flight back to Perugia on Monday morning. Fortunately, we huffed it, paid five pounds each for fast pass customs check (where I downed ¾ of my beloved Nalgene water bottle because I forgot to empty it), and experienced the scare of missing the only way home without the repercussions.  I buckled into the plane seat thankful to have made it, but also sad to be leaving a city I enjoyed so much.

London was kind of an awesome tease of being back home. The reality is, though, that my departure date is quickly approaching. In a little over two weeks, I will be reunited with family and friends. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and rather than being home and feasting, I will be flying to my last travel destination of the semester –  Budapest. I am so grateful for the opportunity to study abroad. The friends, experiences, traveling, yes – even the cultural trials – have blessed me immensely.

Not-So Sempre Dritto

If you couldn’t tell from the title of my blog page, I really like walking. I love using my own legs to freely move from one place to another. I enjoy the Creation and company that often accompany the journey and the feeling of accomplishment and exhaustion after a long trek. Today, Abby and I did a lot of walking.

We wanted to go for a hike, and Umbria is the only landlocked region of Italy, the land is waves of mountains crashing into valleys. We didn’t think that was too tall a request, and in my “Hikes in Perugia, Italy” Google search, I stumbled upon a hike that seemed to be created for me – Perugia Assisi Marcia delle Pace. As in, a 15.73 mile walk from Perugia to Assisi that St. Francis apparently walked once and which peace protestors commemorate once a year. Um, heck. yes…or so I thought. There was that other moderate five mile half-day trip, but of course I zoned in on the challenge, and my kind, more reserved roommate Abby was respectful of that.

That's pretty straightforward, right?

We began the descent this morning and I was pretty proud of ourselves for successfully navigating out of Perugia’s narrow city alleys onto the main road. The GPS map on the website looked like it kept crossing over this road, so we kept our eyes peeled for a path. We kept on, but that path never turned up. We skirted along the edge of the two lane road as European cars zoomed by at 60 kilometers an hour, begrudgingly offering us a perilous two foot breadth. So much for our serene nature walk. Not that the views were bad – the Umbrian landscape arouses my soul every day, and the vineyards and villa houses were a nice change from the city apartments.

Perugia from a distance

 When we arrived at the first borgo a few kilometers in, we were even impressed by the graffiti. It is literally art here.

By that point, though we had seen occasional signs displaying arrows with a pedestrian on Via Roma and San Francesco, we were also becoming more uncertain about this supposed Walk of Peace. It probably had to do with that black-clad, Teva sandal guy with a hunched-over, apelike walk that we passed. He had slothed around and was now a quarter mile behind us. Awesome. Or our broken Italian. Sure, you can ask, “Dov’è la strada andare a Assisi?” but if you only pick up every third word of the response, that’s none too helpful.

Then we saw two women in hiking boots carrying huge backpacks – Gabriella and Francesca. They had walked from Venice and were headed home now. In a mix of Italian and English, they wrote down the next three borgi we needed to walk through. “Ma questa è la via solo, sì?” I asked, seeking assurance.

Sì, sì! Sempre dritto.

Straight ahead. Okay. No a destras or sinistras or qui vicinos.  Straight down this road. Certainly we could handle that. We kept on. Two blocks later, there is a traffic circle, and there is no sempre dritto. We took a few wrong turns and found the sign again. We plodded along a dirt road lining the back of farmers’ yards, unable to escape the tangent aroma of manure or our fears of previous wrong turns. A middle-aged woman smoking a cigarette was pulling out of her driveway. I caught her attention and asked if we were headed the right way. She seemed a little confused and alarmed as to how we had gotten there and where we were headed. She offered us a ride, and, yes, we took it. Paola is her name, and though she did not speak English, she slowed her Italian down so we could understand more. As she drove us several kilometers on, I gathered that she is 51, mother of two young twenty-somethings. Why are we walking to Assisi? Per divertente, for fun. She said we were both brave and crazy. I couldn’t respond with too much, so a lot of sì, sì’s were exchanged. When she dropped us off, she kissed both my cheeks and pointed up, saying we had a good God. I agreed with another sì, sì and grazie mille. Sempre dritto! she said and waved goodbye.

 We kept on. Assisi was now in sight, but the road was no less dangerous or sempre dritto, our walk shortened but still confusing. I greeted an old man sitting on his porch.  Buon viaggi signorine! he yelled and waved. We got lost a few more times, and we found our way once again. Abby declared that I was a leader with too much energy, she a blind follower. There’s some truth there - if you ever walk with me, those two components are pretty necessary. Eventually, feet flattened and beginning to blister, we made it to a road on which we really could march sempre dritto. Friday’s familiar blue dome of the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli loomed ahead in the haze, and our anxiety lessened.

We plodded to the stazione, bought our €2.50 ticket back to Perugia, and rewarded ourselves with another cup of ever-delicious gelato. “Never again,” Abby declared resolutely. She was not dissatisfied, but it was obvious she was happy to be finished; I sympathize with people I rope into going on adventures with me. You never know what could happen. I don't either.

As we walked back to a stazione bench to wait for the train, I saw two young men sporting chacos and travelers’ clothes, some of my favorite things. They gotta be American, I thought. I’ve got a Chaco radar, I’m telling you. We sat by them, and indeed, they spoke English. So we got to talking, and it turns out they just graduated from Clemson; we have several mutual friends, and the world gets smaller every day.

Today was not the perfect walk, and it definitely was not straight ahead, but when is life ever? We interacted with very kind Italians. We saw breathtaking countryside. We made new American friends and walked a truly remarkable distance. Despite the obstacles it brings, I will continue on the path of the not-so sempre dritto in Italy. I will seek direction from a God who is indeed good.  There, in the twists and turns, I will find great adventure.

P.S.

Thanks, Abby. You really were a trooper today.

Playing in Nosara

A few updates:

Monkeys

If you have no experience in Central America, it turns out our mystery animal from the previous blog is indeed only a howler monkey, and they sound much more intimidating than they actually are. Had we kept going a bit longer on the trail, the worst thing that would have happened is a possible groping of a testosterone-filled monkey or some poop droppings from the trees above. That’s their weapon, and honestly, I think it’s a more effective tactic than straight on physical attack.

Jesus

Bible study with my sisters (and now mother!) has been going really well. As in, it’s actually happening, regularly. We’re praying for each other and talking about faith issues together. I’m struggling to go beyond that, though. I know I need to start acting on my faith, but I am consistently held back. After yoga class, we walked along with Eleanor, our yoga instructor, and she said she moved from Canada to Costa Rica for emotional healing, mainly from the pains of relationships and previous men in her life. As it was happening, I felt the tug – she needs Jesus. She’s like the Samaritan woman at the well. Talk about Jesus. Pray for her. I could envision my friend doing it. “You need healing?” he would eagerly ask. “Here, let me give it to you.” And then he would pray for her and talk as long as necessary about this good new life, and there would be a big celebration in heaven. I saw the opportunity coming, and already I knew I would not act on it. Why? Am I really that afraid? I don’t think so. It’s more a matter of boldness and confidence. I want someone to lead me. I want to heal alongside others more confident and experienced than myself. I know it happens, I’m tired of not being a part of it, and yet I do not act.

Mojitos 

The new favorite summer drink for the Comptons is a homemade mojito. The first day we were here, we stopped for lunch at a beach front restaurant, where Mama ordered one. That minty hankering hadn’t quite left her when we took a very expensive trip to the grocery store. At the checkout line, she raised her pointer finger and exclaimed, “Oh! Mojitos!” With the very little Spanish she knows, she talked to the locals to figure out what ingredients we might need, and proceeded to race around the store for mint, lime, club soda, and rum. We get home. We have the ingredients, but do the Comptons strike you as expert drink makers who spend a lot of time at home mixing up concoctions? No, all Hoffa wants is a cold beer and a colder glass. His Spanish consists of “Hola!,” but I think mojito might be a Spanish word. Using a lot of hand gestures and repeating “mojito” incessantly, he invited our jovial taxi driver Louis to come inside to make and drink mojitos with us. Louis speaks little more English than Hoffa does Spanish. He came, though, and half an hour later, we’ve got three Hispanic workers – a taxi driver, a plumber, and a delivery man – and five of the six Comptons sipping on mojitos.

Paddle Boarding 

We’re here for a while, so the padres are trying to spread out our activities, but we have one down. Despite our ability to do it anytime on Shem Creek in good ol’ Mt. Pleasant, Mama was really interested in paddle boarding here. When we started talking to the locals about this idea, they all responded in the same persistent way: “Oh, no, we don’t go to river. Many crocodiles. Eat our dogs. Eat us.” Well that scared Mama off for all of twelve hours. “Let’s just go to the Experience Nosara place and talk to them ourselves. Surely they wouldn’t get all of these high reviews on TripAdvisor if tourists were dying on the river.” Well that’s encouraging, Ma. What do you expect them to say? Like any good tour business eager for customers during the low season, they assured us that it was completely safe. The next morning, Eight-pack Alan (as I secretly called him) came to pick us up. He is the most ripped thirty two year old I have ever seen. He also has a cougar. When Hoffa told me that, I asked dubiously, “What? You have a cougar for a pet?!” No, Jessica, his wife. She’s eight years older than him. Dang. You go for it Alan. At any rate, our day on the river really was enjoyable, and though we did see a few crocodiles, they did not bother us. Mama was satisfied, and the rest of us enjoyed the excursion.

Walking

My favorite exercise is the kind that isn’t intentional exercise. Yesterday, after the intentional run in the morning, I also ended up playing in the ocean for two hours, walking five miles, and doing an hour of yoga. We weren’t walking just to walk, but to actually get somewhere; I love that. I take back what I said about winning a walking contest. It turns out Mama and Rosa Marie can put the spring in their step when they want to. I was the one falling behind on the way to and from the free community yoga class at Harmony Hotel on Playa de Guionnes. It gets dark around 6 pm here, and they walked even faster on our return, a little alarmed by the dark. Are you surprised that we still got confused about how to get back?

Stay tuned. I am working on a pretty funny post. It involves boobs and hugs, so get ready.