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this is our last chance: love

Written by Swati

And for my last weekend, it’s one chock full of repeats. A weekend full of the old, to find where the new has filled in the gaps. Le Centre Pompidou, shopping at Muse, meeting friends at Fox Coffee, and Indian food at Le Vallee du Kashmir. 

I love the Centre Pompidou. I love it because I hate it. It’s confusing and disconcerting and the exhibits consistently knot up my veins and crinkle up the folds in my brain. They’re disturbing and distressing, which means they strike a chord in me. The works rampage through my brain, French modernism is eons beyond my art comprehension. Sure, much of it is lines and squares, eerie videos and whispering audio files, but art disturbs the comforted and comforts the disturbed. My first visit to the modern art museum was my second weekend abroad. I was lost and confused, and I found comfort in piecing the science fiction exhibit together. And it gives me such joy to know that the very same things that comforted me, now disturb me. 

Modern art reminds me of my favorite English teacher in high school who also taught art history and yearbook (she was a very busy woman), but always made time for what mattered. She told us we were art, pressed sunflower seeds in our hands and said the world was ours. Her classroom was a sanctuary, her teachings sacred. When I’m empty inside, I look for her in the corners of paintings and sculptures. I look for the art she sees everywhere. And this weekend, I could feel her hand in my life. Her warmth seeping out of my smile, her gentle nature caressing flower petals.  

A particular painting moved me, the one above, sans titre. I spent a good 15 minutes sat in front of it. Pulling the characters apart, what they must be thinking, how they’ve lived, how they’re interconnected, how my perception of them is altered based on my perspective, what doors they unlock in my heart. I reach a dismayed conclusion: maybe we’re all doomed after all. Maybe we actually will leave the world as we enter it: alone. Maybe happiness is a task too heavy for us to carry out with our own two hands. But that can’t be it. 

We haven’t entered the world alone. What of the doctors and the nurses that spent months making sure we’d enter safely? What of the friends that press flowers into our hands and light candles on the day we entered this world? What of the smiles of strangers on the street? What of every single person who has pulled out threads of happiness tangled deep in the fabric of our hearts? Perhaps we are patchwork quilts, full of knitted squares where the goodness of the outside world seeps in one seam at a time. 

After I was satisfied with my level of unsettlement, I marched off to Fox Coffee to find my friends after an intense game of Go. We had a conversation about the merits and flaws of modern art, but at the end of the day, I believe we need more spaces to force us to think autonomously in an oversaturated world of thought. Sometimes you must be given the time, space, and material to form your own opinions. Listen a little closer to your lost heart. It’ll always have something to say. 

I ended off the evening by getting matching color changing polar bear lamps for my little sister and I from Flying Tiger and heading to get Indian food with another friend. I try not to eat too much Indian food my mom hasn’t made. Not that it isn’t any good, just that I’m picky and my mom has a special hand when it comes to cooking. But sometimes you get a bite of chicken tandoori that’s just unbeatable. Sharing a meal with a friend over sweet, rose lassis reminded me of community and starting deep connections off with shared meals and easy smiles. By the time we made it back to the dorm I was convinced I had spent the absolute perfect last weekend in Metz. 

Maybe love is all we have. Maybe love is all we need. Maybe love is our gravity, that which pulls us towards each other.

A Love Letter to Metz

Written by Swati

April 21st, 2023

I’m sitting in Fox Coffee, the buzz of a pianist tapping away keys in the background, business men in meetings, friends catching up over coffee, and babies crying meld together, creating a harmony of chaos. Life is about finding peace in the turmoil, focus in the wreckage. Periodically taking a sip of my chai latte and glancing up at a man swiping on an iPad in John Lennon-esque glasses and another shuffling a handful of sketches in the corner, I feel the tension release from my shoulders as my vision clears. This must be the French joie de vivre. I finally feel it. I felt it so quickly in every other country, in every other city but I fought a battle with Metz during my first few months here. It’s a bit bittersweet to reach this conclusion so close to the end, but somewhere along the trek through muddy pathways and tapping excess rainwater out of my shoes, I fell for Metz in my own way. 

Metz kicked me when I was down, trickled rainwater into my teary eyes, then baked me chocolate eclairs, poured me a hot cup of tea and ran a hand through my hair, pressing a menu-etudiant in my hands when I had long forgotten about eating. Metz is a mother, taking my rage with a gentle hand, welcoming me back with warm, albeit misty and rainy, arms.  

Metz is taking off the mask, letting the facade go for a moment, wandering through a book festival and finding authors from different corners of the continent gathered in one place. Metz is knotted eyebrows and narrowed eyes bumbling through French conversations, picking out a few intelligible words and gesturing wildly in grocery stores. Metz is kind strangers with understanding eyes, encouraging smiles. It’s wondering who’s lying in intense games of One Night, suspecting new friends and questioning trust, observing strategy in a fierce game of Go. It’s slathering Nutella and strawberries into homemade crepes. 

In its own way Metz is both comfortable and suffocating, beautiful and boring, a calm pool of water next to the tumultuous sea. She is a baseline, a sanctuary, a suburban hideaway tucked away in the middle of madness. She is the last date before a breakup, wondering if the spark is still there. Whispered conversations over coffee, staring emptily at the ground, irreconcilable differences. Freedom from the chains of love or imprisonment in your solitude? Pick your poison. 

Metz is closing your eyes in the rare moments of sunlight, drinking up the precious, fleeting warmth. Metz smiles sadly as you grit your teeth, scribbling out half-hearted notes in class while staring out the window, always in wait for what’s next. She is a curious fusion of exhausted parents and spirited youth. Leather jackets and black puffer jackets populate the buses, dogs scamper next to their owners, teenagers dot the sidewalk, gasps blended with “c’est pas vrai!” and “mais non!” color their heartful conversations. 

Metz is now a piece of home, a shard of my heart, a worn couch cushion, every layer in a croissant. She is a complicated blend of chai, all of the emotions seeping together, each finding their own place in the mix.

Monthly Musings #3: Make the Week(end)s Go Slower

Written by Swati

April 4th 2023

3 months, 9 countries, a lifetime of memories. Enough titles from bookstores to last me the next few years. Can we believe how quickly the semester has gone by? I’m trying to grasp on to the ends of every moment, but find them slipping through my fingers. This semester feels like sand on the weekends, shattered glass during the weeks. It’s difficult to recuperate from travel and the unwelcoming arms of classes on Mondays wrap around us like steel arms. The seconds pass like ice melts in the winter, my fingers creak over laptop keys. 

This month was growing pains. This month was hitting the wall, running my fingers over concrete, slipping over lakeside rocks, pulling myself out of knee-deep water with a laugh. Sometimes the world laughs at you, sometimes you laugh at yourself alongside it. I’ve learned it’s best not to take yourself too seriously in moments of distress. Somehow we find a way.  Somehow we will find a way. This month was train rides, observing strangers from toe to head, blinking away stray tears. This month was girls’ night in tiny kitchenettes, tender chicken cutlets over sauteed broccoli, giggling to the Mamma Mia soundtrack. This month was tears of affection, tears of exhaustion, tears of confusion, tears of uncontrollable joy. This month was fighting with the world, finding out that it won’t always fight back. This month was throwing my arms around strangers turned to sisters, chasing after stars at dusk. 

In Portugal I learned to admire. Literary landmarks, detailed porcelain tiles, the sun’s gentle caress. Life is sweet where the weather is nice. Or where people make the weather feel nice. And maybe that’s the secret to it all. In Belgium, I learned of the sweetness of simplicity. Chocolate shops, bookstores, and walks along canals. In Ireland I learned to love big. Throw my arms around the world and feel what it’s like to have it wrap me in its warmth and chaos. I learned to ask small questions, await big answers. I learned to do the things I thought I would hate just to give it a chance, sometimes hectic pays off. And in Switzerland I learned to never control my awe of things big and small. The relief of reunion, a newly bloomed spring tree, a groomed dog’s soft coat, a father gently guiding his toddler by the Swiss riverside, a necklace for my best friend. Ducks swimming forward, looking you right in the eye, telling you a secret. This month I learned to skip through empty streets and spin around my room at midnight. Falling is another way to learn how to fly. I learned how to lean on the people around me and found comfort in the similarity of our experiences. I took off the rose colored glasses and realized the petals were beneath my feet the whole time. Everything comes back, but youth never does, not in quite the same form at least. If I could do anything, I’d stop time. I’d freeze it now, as I write this and look back on memorabilia that already means the world to me. I’d freeze it every second of this semester. I’d make these past few months everlasting. But the fact that they are fleeting makes them all the more precious. 

From London With All My Love

Written by Swati

April 13th 2023

London, London, London, how I truly love you. Being in London is like slipping on your old favorite shoes, flipping through your favorite childhood book, finding a sweatshirt that fits just right. Wandering through Kensington and Westminster, I felt my heart fill up with the greatest sense of belonging. London bookstores feel like a boost of glucose straight to your bloodstream. A perfect mix of classics and currents, well-loved second hand treasures and mint condition newly printed novels. So many cornerstone female and feminist authors hail from these streets: Virginia Woolf, the Bronte sisters, and Mary Wollstonecraft. I spend many hours digging through bookshelves to find their stories and muses. Life in London is a thrill, it’s a city that’s exciting, it’s a city that’s inviting. Londoners, in my experience, also went out of their ways to help me. At the British Library, a man drew me a map to his favorite bookstores nearby and told me to be safe in the protesting Parisian streets when I Ieft England. Two elderly women stopped me on my march to the train station to let me know my backpack was open and made sure nothing fell out. Every upbeat pop song that dances through my head feels just right in the city. The brick architecture, the newly restored Big Ben, the London Bridge that is not actually falling down. It feels like the buzz of New York with the charm of Paris. As soon as I stepped off the platform at St Pancras International Station on Thursday morning I put on the rose colored glasses of life and didn’t take them off for six full days.

I spent my first and last day in and around books, The British Library, where I registered myself for a library card (my favorite souvenir!), and three bookstores, Waterstones, Judd Books, and Collinge and Clark for collectors. Taking the day to settle in and pop into shops while strolling the streets was the perfect beginning to my London adventure. I ran into the Thursday afternoon street market by University College London and found an Indian street food stand run by a Tamil man, from the same hometown as my mother, who made chicken curry that tasted the same as my grandfather’s. I spent hours flipping through old novels and found books written by the philosopher I met on the train in Italy. Over the next few days I saw the London Eye, Big Ben, Kensington and Buckingham Palaces, walked the streets of Soho and Chinatown, spent a morning in Wales, fell hard for the Phantom of the Opera, and indulged in English breakfasts and tea.

London is not just a place, it’s a feeling. High tea with delicate sandwiches, flower petals falling between pages, sun sparkling on the Thames. My mother says I fell in love with London before I even knew what love was. And after this past weekend, I can fully attest to that. I love people watching on the Chube, despite how slow it is. I love afternoon strolls in the Kensington Palace gardens, the fields gently caressed by clusters of spring flowers. I love walking down the streets and seeing black trench coat-clad shoulders and simple leather bags, haphazardly layered gold necklaces. I love the hum of traffic along Portobello Road, the jewelry stalls in Camden Market, the busking in Covent Garden. I like to think London taught me what love is. As soon as I stepped off the platform, it was at first sight that I fell. Dearest mum, you could’ve made me English. What a shame. Never mind the past. London, I will be back. For a year or two at the very least, the better part of this lifetime if I’m lucky. 

You Get the Best of Both Worlds

Written by Swati

March 30th 2023

At dawn we break. Well at dawn I break to go find my tour bus through Wild Rover Tours for my day trip to the Cliffs of Moher! Our tour guide is effectively an enthusiastic elementary school teacher, sprinkling in fun facts about Ireland and Irish history throughout the tour and her light hearted commentary distract from the fact that we have a 3 hour bus journey starting at 7am to reach the cliffs. We take a quick pit stop at the Obama Plaza, a gas station dedicated to Barack Obama, who apparently is a descendant of the Moneygall Obamas. When we make it to the cliffs around 11, I’m struck by the pure wonder of the thrashing waves against cliffs that go on for miles. I only have 2 hours there before we head off to Galway, so I immediately start down the path to the right. 

Let me say it here first and foremost: I’m really not a nature gal. I’d rather spend a day in a bookstore or art museum than go on a hike, but I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world. I endured snow, rain, wind, and slivers of sunshine at the cliffs and every minute felt like a new adventure. Even if I took my eyes off of them for a second, I’d gasp when they entered my line of sight again. I felt a sense of camaraderie with fellow travelers who were whipped by the strong wind and fought against nature to witness its beauty. It felt like walking through a wind tunnel, but being rewarded with more waves crashing in at every stopping point. The Cliffs of Moher truly feel like a wonder of the world. I walk my way over to the end of the official path and find a castle at the highest point. Arms outstretched, it feels very Titanic, but I say a little “I’m king of the world!” in honor of Leonardo DiCaprio’s legendary film and start the cautious trek up the treacherous path. The unofficial walking paths to the edge of the cliffs aren’t technically endorsed by the tourism office, but there are safety precautions and a trail, so I take the leap and make it about halfway up either end before reaching puddles too large to cross. 

I eventually make my way back to the bus begrudgingly for the last leg of the trip to Galway and our tour guide teaches us some words in Irish and tells us of Irish hospitality. She tells us it used to be illegal to refuse housing to a traveler in Ireland and that food and entertainment, including an evening of  storytelling and songs, were expected. I find Irish hospitality and gentleness to strike a chord in my heart. There’s such an affection for new people hidden in their sing-songy accents. When we reach Galway, I find another bookstore I want to visit and pick up a boba, a box of chocolates, and a Claddagh necklace on the way there. The Claddagh ring, a ring with a symbol of a heart held by two hands, has a unique history in Galway where women wore them on either hand and turned in different directions based on their relationship status. If it was worn on the left hand facing outwards, it meant a woman was single and ready to mingle. Left hand turned in meant she was seeing someone. Right hand turned outwards meant she was engaged and right hand turned inwards meant she was married. The ring’s code was a way for men to approach women on a night out, which the tour guide joked helped the awkward Irishmen land dates. On the way to the coast, I grab a box of fish and chips, and an order of oysters, to enjoy a seaside picnic. I’ve never had oysters before, and while I doubt I’d go out of my way to eat them again, I enjoyed the new experience and the splash of lemon juice. We culminate the tour with a round of old Irish pub songs that she sings with hints of melancholy and cheer at sunset and we part with a list of Dublin recommendations. I snapped a picture, but knew that the tour wore me out and I had a flight to catch in 10 hours back to Luxembourg.

Upon my arrival in Luxembourg the next morning, I felt like I’d just woken up from a dream. Even looking back at the pictures now, I can’t believe I saw the cliffs with my own eyes. And I had 2 full days to rest and recuperate, a first for the semester! If this stat homework and physics lab ever get done, I really get the best of both worlds this weekend.

Books, Books, Books, and.. Oh What Was It? Oh, Yeah Books!

Written by Swati

March 27th 2023

(Trinity College Old Library)

Another weekend. Another solo trip. Except this time to the incredible city of Dublin and to the Cliffs of Moher! At this point, I consider my travel life a pendulum. When I travel alone too much, I crave company, and after a few hours of company, I’m ready to set out on my own again. These past two weekends I paired and trio’d off with small groups to Germany and Belgium but I was able to snag round trip tickets to Dublin for just 2 days at around 40 euros on Ryanair! Truly the best of both worlds as I’ve been needing some time and space away from campus and the recent onset of everyone collectively hitting the wall, but also rest and time to recuperate from the go-go-go lifestyle. 

I love solo travel. I truly do. Gosh it’s so romantic. It’s so freeing. It’s incredible, it’s lovely. It makes the globe feel like a bead. Spin the top and go where your finger lands just because you can. And it provides so much more opportunity to seek out hidden alleyways and street murals. Every minute feels like a movie. While I didn’t have nearly enough time in the beautiful city of Dublin, the time I spent there was magic. Several of Dublin’s historic tourist sites are going through a period of refurbishment, the Dublin Castle and the Trinity College Old Library, but I still appreciated the ability to see them in transition. 

The Trinity College Old Library and Book of Kells were historic, beautiful, and so calming. Worth the 15 euro entry fee? Maybe debatable. But when I entered that room, I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be. A beautiful oak room filled floor to ceiling with the oldest copies of Irish history (but not currently, they’re in the process of tagging and scanning sections of books for their digital collection) and busts of historical figures like Shakespeare, Plato, and Ada Lovelace. I sat on the corner of a wooden bench and just took it all in. I don’t consider myself much of a giftshop person but I made an exception at Trinity College when I found the most beautiful copy of ‘Dubliners’ by James Joyce, a notable author from Ireland. I couldn’t resist the gold lined pages and robin’s egg blue hardback cover. And the Irish bookstores! They’re truly a world of their own. I dreamt of being a writer for so long as a child and literary cities strike a chord in my heart. It’s why I harbor such affection for Edinburgh, whose many famous sites are in honor of Sir Walter Scott, a household Scottish writer, and Porto, for their famous bookstore and literary sites throughout the city. 

Sprinkled throughout Dublin are gems of bookstores and storytellers. I popped into The Winding Stair and picked up a copy of Letters to A Young Poet and browsed through Books Upstairs, another bookstore right next to my hostel. It was quite freeing to wander these English bookstores and stop myself from buying books not out of a lack of understanding but out of respect for my credit card. I’ve been having the opposite problem in Italy, Portugal, Belgium and France where I pick up copies of books and translate the pages individually, attempting to piece together stories before realizing that I can’t keep collecting books that I can’t effectively understand. Every bookstore proudly boasts copies of books written by James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, and WB Yeats, three of the most notable Irish authors. I was also pleasantly surprised to find Salley Rooney, the author of ‘Normal People’ amongst the Irish bestsellers section! The next morning I woke up at 6am for my Cliffs of Moher Day Tour! I had originally planned to spend both days of this short trip in Dublin, but I booked a Cliffs of Moher Tour through GetYourGuide at the recommendation of another group from GTE who went to Ireland last month. Best. Decision. Ever. Stay tuned to find out more!

Where to Rest My Eyes

Written by Swati

March 25th 2023

With UNESCO World Heritage sites on every street corner and historic memorabilia in every city, it’s difficult to give everything the attention and care it deserves. Parts of Europe have developed history and culture over centuries, some over thousands of years in the case of empires, with preserved artifacts marking some of humanity’s most groundbreaking accomplishments. Especially in cities in France, Italy, and Germany, dozens of museums populate towns, and I found myself struggling knowing where to put my eyes. Behold: the black door. This black door found in the room next to Michelangelo’s David caught my eyes in Florence. After about a half hour sat in a corner analyzing the realistic curves and features of David, Googling what he means and why people travel across seas and over mountains to see him, I found myself wandering over to the next room: half in awe, half in mental exhaustion. I stumbled upon the door. It was in the least ostentatious corner in the museum that gave me reprise from the lifelike marble and classical instruments throughout the museum. I found myself wondering what secrets lie beyond. Is it an uncovered exhibition? A storage of old masterpieces? More likely than not it’s a room filled with dusty chairs and stanchions to guide lines of people, but the possibility of something exciting kept me there for a moment longer. 

Guides and walking tours are great wells of knowledge in new cities, and they have information that many cannot amass during their first visit to new places, but it can often get exhausting trying to follow the routes and stay interested in old fun facts and historical tidbits. Don’t get me wrong, the right tour guides and the right instructors can interest you in just about anything, but we all tire of the same things at some point.

In order to break up the monotony, I signed up for a chocolate making class on a whim after talking to a pair of girls on Spring Break in my Bruges hostel. After a few days of admiring architecture, I started to wonder just what else there is to do in new cities any more. Of course there are the local delights: food, desserts, tourist attractions, but after nearly three months of walking up and down streets, you tire a bit. In my head, one thing never gets old: books and waterways. I find water the most relaxing part of nature, and I think the best when I watch waves lap over each other, but to break up the routine I wanted some new experiences that are specific to a place. The chocolate making class ended up being the most exciting part of my Belgian excursion this past weekend. Two and a half hours of sneaking bites of hardened chocolate and swoops of ganache, I was in heaven. I was in a class of fifteen, including a couple from London and about a dozen Americans studying abroad in different parts of Europe. Our instructor was the perfect amount of informative, encouraging, and hilarious, which encouraged me to sign up for more experiential days on my upcoming trips! I hope you’re looking forward to hearing about the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland and paragliding in Switzerland soon. 

I realize now that we are hitting the point of exhaustion. Somewhere along the way, streets blur together and the beauty and excitement of seeing new places wanes. It’s not that travel isn’t the most liberating and exciting thing in the world, it’s that the real world checks back in upon our weekly arrivals in Metz and sooner than later homework turns to exams turn into projects that were assigned weeks in advance. It’s later than I thought, with only 6 weekends left. I thought I would tire of the nearly full-time travel sooner. It must be the spring blooms, welcoming in the sunshine, putting on a parade for her. With the strikes and travel delays, we’re wearing out in transit, and there can be too much of a good thing. Sundays that used to be spent wandering cities, expecting to take the last train back, have turned into getting to the train station first thing in the morning and crossing my fingers that all legs of my journey still exist. But hardships wither in the face of comfort. And updating friends on the wild transit schemes and making it back safely are more things I can look forward to.

Curating a Sense of Self

Written by Swati

March 24th 2023

Much of our twenties culminate to a strong sense of self, or a person we come to recognize as we grow older. Some people are known as “too much,” having opinions on every little thing, whereas others are so easygoing and blend in so well they barely exist at all. The overarching light behind studying abroad is the ability to pick up stories and experiences from different corners of Europe. From chatting in pre-med to seat partners in chocolate making classes in Belgium to fumbling through a French conversation with women from Montreal along the Portuguese riviera, pretty soon we’ll all be friends of friends that cover the globe. 

In Florence I found a quote by Doris Lessing that has stayed with me over the past few weeks, “Pensa in modo sbagliato, se vuoi, ma pensa con la tua testa.” Think wrong if you will, but think for yourself. 

Doris Lessing was also a citizen of the world. Born to British-Zimbabwean parents in Tehran, Iran, she lived in Southern Rhodesia (modern-day Zimbabwe) before moving to London, where she spent the rest of her life writing. It’s ironic that I found a British writer’s quote to be the most moving amongst a wall of quotes from international authors in an Italian bookstore, but the phrase is something I hope to keep by my side for a long time. When you make mistakes, they are yours. When you triumph, those victories are yours. Autonomy and developing a strong sense of self with opinions and desires is the most freeing part of becoming an adult. You are free to explore, free to examine, free to think, and free to observe as you please. Take advantage of that, especially in a place like Europe, where you are peering in through the looking glass. Soon enough, French and the French lifestyle will fit like a comfortable second skin and you will go in search of more adventure. 

Break off from your group for a few hours and do the things no one will join you for: museums that only you find interesting about cars or bratwurst, a hike through the hills, feeding birds in a park, reading religious text in a new language. Some things are just yours and you’ll grow more as a person by fostering that love instead of trading it in for that which others find more acceptable or traditionally fun. 

I recently read “Everything I Know about Love” by Dolly Aderton, a British journalist, whose quippy memoir warns about the lack of a sense of self. She writes about decades of her party lifestyle that culminate in years of therapy where she grapples with figuring out who she really is. Which anticipates the thought: why do we waste so much time waiting to figure out what it is we like and who we are? I can say with full confidence that I came to Metz to break out of the monotony of my life on the main campus, but also to be away from peering eyes. I didn’t want the noise of competition, drawl about internship compensation, and irritation of far too many assignments to reasonably complete to distract from the fact that I will never be in a position to drop everything and adventure ever again. 

Think deeply about who you are, and who you want to be. Run amuck, strike up a conversation with a stranger (during daylight hours and in the vicinity of others-please!), throw flower petals and skip rocks, wave at dogs on the street, and fall so incredibly in love with your life that it physically tears at your heart to have to change it. 

What a wild and wonderful thing it is to be you in a world with millions of possibilities and millions of universes in which if one thing changed, your whole life would look different. In the most cheesy, 2012 Tumblr way possible, be yourself because everyone else is taken. Thanks, Oscar Wilde!

Saudade

Written by Swati

March 9th 2023

I’m fully convinced that people who live in places with nicer weather are better people. Never have I been smiled at on the street so often or found street musicians playing love songs from the early 2000s as the sun set. In the coastal cities of Portugal: Porto, Aviero, and Coimbra I see such an affection and pride for life. Life is art and art is the simplicity of life. Pastel de nata with a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice first thing in the morning, the laughter of children tinkling in the background. In Portugal I see public displays of emotion for the first time in Europe, couples dance in the streets, babies waddle up to drop change in open guitar cases, others stroll by on daily walks, laughter in their eyes. How could life even be that bad with a protective blanket of sunshine over you?

I see a woman swipe away tears on the train to Aveiro, a connection on my way to Coimbra for a day trip out of Porto. White wired headphones in, I can only imagine what was floating through her ears. An old love song, reminders of a former flame, or a voicemail from a loved one thousands of miles away. Gentle waves lap at the shore out of the window, tenderness clouds her face. When our eyes meet she sends me a sad smile and I wonder what realizations she’s having on this train ride, where she’s headed, and what decisions she’s made recently that led her up to this moment. Accompanied only by a simple black tote bag, worn leather heels, and a swipe of red lipstick, she could be headed off to see the lake and decompress after a long work week or mourn a loss in her starched black dress pants. Maybe she hugged someone for the last time or hasn’t seen the sea in years and the fondness of it all brings tears to her eyes. This must be saudade. The longing and melancholy for something lost, something that may have never existed. 

Across from me a French couple does crossword puzzles together. If I was feeling any more adventurous I would’ve struck up a conversation but I’m too wrapped in scribbling down answers to Physics practice tests, sneaking in glances at the sea, and making up backstories for my fellow train dwellers. I love catching people in the midst of existence. Running to catch the bus, nodding off on early morning transportation, caught in the rain, burnt tongues from hot coffee, sticky fingers from melted gelato, widening eyes when realization hits. Struck by the humanity of it all I made the last minute decision to stop off in Aveiro and spend some time by the water before taking the next train out to Coimbra two hours later. With the lake a 30 minute walk away, I took a waterside stroll, saw Aveiro’s salt fields, and sat by the pier. On the way back to the train station I had bacalhau à lagareiro com batatas (cod with potatoes) and the blend of fresh caught seafood, homeliness of the restaurant, and kindness of the waiter made for an incredible meal. I was a bit rushed to get back to catch the train, but Aveiro was a sweet coastal town.

Monthly Musings #2

Written by Swati

March 6th 2023

They say it takes 21 days to build a habit. How sweet it is to know that your body works with your mind to make sure you thrive anywhere you go. In just three weeks you could be good as new. From weighing my own produce and getting stickers to scan at grocery stores to walking up cobblestone streets and deciding that 30-minute walks to the corners of new cities are good for the soul, every place I’ve been to has been so kind to me. I’m constantly surprised at the patience, gentleness, and warmth I’ve received from strangers and the reminder that every problem has a solution.

As always, here are 5 more things I’ve learned over the last month:

  1. Make mealtimes fun with friends! This sounds like the tagline to an awful commercial you just can’t get out of your head, but sharing meals with friends in the dorms make for good memories and opportunities to learn new recipes! Whether it’s a risotto or a simple pasta, sometimes life can get hectic and trying to figure out what to buy for your weekly grocery haul feels a bit too overwhelming. Share the burden with your neighbors and bundle in some time to swap stories about your travels!
  1. Reconnect with old friends and see who you can find nearby. Recently I shared about how I was able to spend time with an old friend from high school, but you’ll surprise yourself with the number of family or childhood friends that are currently in Europe or spent some time here and have recommendations! Keep your community and support system strong by having people outside of the GTE bubble to reach out to and connect with. 
  1. Go grocery shopping in new countries and pick up snacks and easy to eat on-the-go items! If one thing’s for sure it’s that businesses in several countries operate on their own schedules. Some restaurants close in between lunch and dinner, some close after lunch, some open just for dinner. With long days of traveling and arriving in new places at odd hours, try to stop by a grocery store to stock up on snacks and local favorites without the hefty tourist prices. If you’d like a recommendation, I favor Lidl over all of the other ones for both price and quality. Whether it’s a pastel de nata in Portugal or gelato in Italy, grocery stores have their own spin and charm on local classics. 
  1. Take pictures of everything! (Or videos, draw sketches, keep momentos, whatever your thing is.) It’s easy to fall into the normalcy of seeing cobblestone streets and grandiose balconies on every street corner, but I try to keep a collection of photos and journal entries with momentos from each city I go to just to see the differences in architecture and energy between them. They say a picture is worth a thousand words and while I’m unwont to agree completely, each city is unique and having the opportunity to look back on a clear retelling of it is truly something special. 
  1. Try to say something, anything, in the local language wherever you go because the effort is always appreciated. Even if it’s a greeting, please and thank you, and asking if someone speaks English in the local language if you’re truly at a loss for words will get you far in terms of warmth and reception. There’s a reason tourists are often regarded with exasperation and weariness, but showing appreciation and respect towards new cultures and languages will expand and increase the value of your time spent in a new place!

They say it takes 21 days to build a habit, and it’s been a little over 55, I slowly realize I could get used to this life. A desire to live, a desire to survive, a desire to thrive. I realize I’ve talked your ear off about Italy, what can I say it was 10 out of 28 days of the month and few more of preparation. But the sweetness of life is an addicting flavor. Lazy wandering streets and squeezing through back alleyways make the world feel like a treasure box. I’m glad to never know what I’ll find.