Category: Travels

Travels from Metz – Gateway to Europe.

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.

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.

A Slice of Home (Haha! Get It? Laugh, It’s Funny.)

Written by Swati

March 3rd, 2023

What does it mean to find a piece of home everywhere you go? To me it’s following the heart, doing what feels right, chasing impulses with wild abandon, whether it means I spend the day staring at water or wander the streets of a new city and strike up small talk with shop owners and seat neighbors on trains. It means leaving a piece of your soul in every city, just hoping you’ll have a chance to come back to find it one day. 

This week I was infinitely lucky to plan part of my spring break to spend time with a good friend of mine from high school, Shelby! She traveled to Europe a few times in high school and her love of adventure and interest in politics and culture always inspired me to reach further out of my comfort zone to see what else I could learn. She was often the first of my friends to catch on to international trends, music, and TV shows, and her openness to the unknown still continues today. When I found out she’d be in Florence studying abroad for the semester, I knew we had to plan to spend some time together. 

After a particularly life-changing train ride to Florence from Venice, I trudged down the cobblestone streets with a backpack too full for my own two feet, and settled into an apartment turned into a homestay for guests. Shelby and I settled on meeting for dinner and strolled the streets of Florence before finding a restaurant. It was in her eyes and in her presence that I could truly feel how much I had changed. Gone were the days crying over points lost on exams, fitting in meetings at the crack of dawn and between lunch and class, signing myself up for leadership of any club I could get my hands on. I could finally live. I could finally breathe. I could finally understand life is all about balance.

When I went to visit Seattle last summer, it was my first time truly traveling and learning what was beyond the world that I knew. It was the first time I’d stood on a pier and thought to myself: if this is life, I must be living it. Staring out at the water I felt limitless. Ever since then I’ve chased that feeling. And I’ve found it hidden in narrow alleyways in Venice, in smiling strangers turned to friends in Glasgow, between pages at the Writer’s Museum in Edinburgh, in collecting seashells by the shore at Como Lago, and in front of my own two feet. 

Wandering Florence with Shelby and speaking fondly of our days in high school I was once again hit with the sudden realization of how much we had both grown up. How suddenly we make decisions like tidal waves in our lives that seem like ripples at the time. How easily we can find ourselves thousands of miles away from where we met, meeting again as the same but somehow fundamentally different. How three years as young adults helped solidify our senses of self and knowing that which we truly desire, even if it changes every day. 

And how sometimes pieces of home are sharing pizza with a familiar face, hearing recognizable laughter, and easy-flowing conversation. Sometimes we don’t need to go search for pieces of home in bookstores and museums in new cities. They just as easily come to find us. 

Lately I’ve been thinking about people. How people make a city. How I won’t quite remember the restaurants or exhibits I visited but I’ll always remember people and the conversations and memories that I’ve made with them. Everywhere I go I find myself staring at busy streets wondering what goes in people’s minds, what they worry about, what takes over their conversations, where they’re headed. 

And I wish I could meet fateful strangers every day, Scottish philosophers that ease the weight of the world, Korean families owning seaside restaurants, college students abroad on weekend getaways. But then I remember that not everything can matter and not everything can break and make the world whole because it would be like highlighting the entire planet. But it’s the highlights that color a memory, and it’s the feelings that make those memories last. And home can be found in people, not in places.

The People We Meet On The Train

Written by Swati

March 2nd 2023

The people we meet on the train are Fate’s hands knitting the cloth of our lives right before our eyes. On the way to Venice, a massage therapist from Thailand settled in Albania, hoping to move to Switzerland to join the rest of his family. A couple on vacation from

Gyeonggi-do, South Korea, on a romantic getaway from the cityscape. Fathers wrangle rows of children together, mothers patiently gather tickets and baggage for disembarkment.  The people I meet on the train will be scored on my heart forever. 

On the way to Florence, I could feel Fate’s hand pushing me forward into my life. After a gentle morning in Burano, a fishing village off of Venice with rows of colorful houses and small pieces of handmade lace, I took some extra time to write by the water. I decide that Venice must be God’s favorite place on Earth. Manmade creations meant to mimic greatness I’d assume he respects the attempt, and allows it to prosper. It wasn’t a place where I necessarily found happiness, but where I found that happiness could be found. And with that I took a ferry back to Venice, with more than enough time to make it to my train. Or so I thought. 

How quickly an hour disappears. Delays in turn to new ferry lines, turn into frantic scrambling down Venetian streets, canvas bag in hand, hair whipping through the wind. By the time I made it back to my hotel to pick up my bag, I had 25 minutes to make the 22 minute journey to the Venezia Santa Lucia train station. I had all but given up, but something about traveling abroad alone has instilled more fight in me. If I am to miss a train, I must first attempt to make it. A big problem I had growing up was giving up too early. As it goes with young children who are identified as talented early on, I always wanted to be a natural. I wanted to be good at everything. I wanted assurance that all attempts are rewarded. But the world doesn’t work that way. And it’s alright. Sometimes Fate reaches out a hand. And that’s all we need. 

After clattering my way to the train station, a glass bottle toppled out of one of my bags splattering all over the stoned road. I couldn’t tell you why, but once I decided I’d be spending more than 2 days at Lake Como, I fell into the domesticity of it all, and ran to the nearby Lidl to purchase supplies for a lakeside picnic. The unfortunate thing about going grocery shopping with me is that I’ll always shop as my Indian mother taught me to, looking for deals and purchasing a mix of fruits and snacks. But this meant that I ended up with 2 full bags of groceries that I then needed to take to Venice, and later Florence, with me. I’d managed to pack a backpack crammed full of clothes for 10 days in Italy, but the rest were plastic bags from grocery stores knotted haphazardly around my fingers. I ran to the terminal a mere 3 minutes prior to departure, only to find that my seat was in the last car of the train. In the midst of the chaos, I make the split decision to settle into the second car, and cross my fingers that no one else has reserved the seat that I just claimed. Across from me, I snuggle my backpack, two bags of groceries, and my tote bag. Sigh of relief. I’ve done it. I’m on the train and I will be in Florence in 2 hours. Enter Fate.

Stopping at a nearby station, Padova if I recall correctly, a dozen new passengers enter the train. A woman walks over to the couple next to me, explaining that she had reserved one of their seats, starting a bit of a stir that had me wondering if it was my mistake that would finally be revealed. But Fate would have it otherwise. A man enters as well, gesturing that he has reserved the seat that held my belongings. Eyes widening, I apologize profusely, knocking over my water bottle full of San Benedetto Allegro, a sparkling citrus fruit juice. Lovely. While I’m gathering my bearings, the couple and a nearby train hostess discuss, asking the woman with the original seat reservation if she would be okay taking a different seat nearby, as the train car was close to empty. With an agreement from all four of us in the vicinity, she heads over to a different seat and the man sits across from me, apologizing as well. I detect an English accent and a lack of the normal European distaste towards my clumsy nature. I take the plunge, asking if he was English which led to the most engaging conversation I’ve had in months.

I find that he’s John Armstrong, a Glasgow native and Oxford-educated philosopher, professor, author, and art collector. It’s difficult to read strangers, and with all the stranger danger training I received beginning at age 5, I’ve favored safety in traveling alone. But life in Italy, and maybe in overarching Europe, has an emphasis on most strangers minding their own business, often not starting conversation unless approached first. It gives me a greater feeling of control and ability to walk myself out of unsavory situations or break if conversation tapers off. In fact, the way a conversation begins is quite interesting. It feels too technical to ever engineer perfectly, which is why I’ll always believe Fate led me to that train, that train car, that seat, and that conversation. 

John Armstrong has enough stories to last lifetimes, but I find that much of the work that he’s done and continues to do in literature are along the lines of the realizations I’ve had along my European adventure thus far: small joys and finding beauty in the little things, more specifically why we are pulled to beautiful things like the stroke of a brush in a painting, or a curve of a hand in a sculpture. I’m amazed to have found a writer, but also such a mind, passing through at the same time as I did.  I’ve never quite been able to look Fate in the eye the way I did that Thursday afternoon.

If by chance you’re reading this now, Mr. John Armstrong, I hope you find that opening line you’re looking for to start your newest book. 

The people we meet on the train won’t fix us. But they will teach us, lead us, and guide us into understanding that we are fixing ourselves.

The World is your Oyster and Your Pearl

Written by Swati

February 24th, 2023

The World is Your Oyster- And Your Pearl

Gentle waves crept along the shore, a mid-morning lullaby, I watched as a border collie eagerly threw herself into the lake in search of a tennis ball. There was a quiet chill in the air, but in the midst of dogs on walks and families on morning strolls I couldn’t help but be selfishly blissful to get this moment of utter peace along the shores of one of the most beautiful sights in Italy all to myself. It felt like my whole life was on pause, la dolce far niente. The sweetness of doing absolutely nothing. As the sun took her slow, hazy rise, I admired youth. What a beautiful thing. A little boy waddles to the shore and skips his first rocks while his parents watch in admiration of their little creation. Plum cake in hand, I realize that this must be life. All I need is what’s in front of me. The sweetness of sitting on a shore, dipping my toes in and letting inspiration take her rightful place rooted back in my heart. I’ve always been so fortunate to be surrounded by people who believed in me and shepherded me to roles and positions of greatness. With acceleration in school, leadership, and hobbies, I grew up with an innate need to make something of myself. And I found no shortage of opportunities or support, something I’m endlessly thankful for. But it also led to severe feelings of inadequacy and an inability to stop and appreciate anything for long enough to realize how much was put into it. It felt like life started and never paused from the age of eleven to twenty-one. I was constantly in preparation for something or in the process of something else. As the fog receded over the lake and the warmth of the sun settled into my bones, I think I finally understood simple pleasures, small joy. The waves are a smattering of stardust, diamonds atop water, hypnotizing to say the least. I knew I could spend hours there, and to no surprise, I was there from ten in the morning to five in the evening. 

Gazing at the water, I reached another big conclusion: the world is your oyster-  and she is your pearl. You are free to take anything she offers you, experiences, lessons, and life. And she will be everything beautiful in return: joy, sadness, excitement, and youth. 

As the sun set over the alps, I felt a prick of tears in my eyes. How lucky am I to be alive in such a beautiful place in this crucial moment in my life? How perfectly have the pieces fallen into place so that I can see such beauty across the world at such a young age? Running to catch the bus after a pasta lunch with a gelato in hand in Bellagio with new friends studying abroad in Paris and London all the way from Harvard. If there’s anything I’m most thankful for, it’s the kindness of strangers and the shared experience of other young adults traveling Europe, as students or otherwise, and my newfound ability to strike up conversation and find new friends anywhere. This is the sweetness of youth, the excitement of freedom. 

The same water that softens the potato, hardens the egg, the same lake that rounds the pebble, sharpens the rock. How fascinating it is that we are all living the same lives in such different ways, each on our own paths. Another little Italian boy skips rocks and I watch his small joy rocket as he runs up and down the shoreline, tossing in more pebbles and watching the ripples disappear. In the midst of his seashell collecting expedition, he sees me watching and runs up with a handful of seashells, depositing them carefully into my palm. 

Existence is just a shout in the void, a ripple in the lake, footsteps along a shoreline, a stroke in a painting. How beautiful it is to know that you must not always shake the world whole.

La Dolce Vita

Written by Swati

February 23rd, 20223

Life in Italy is slow, every moment is sweet. La dolce vita, the aforementioned dolce far niente. The trains and buses are often a few minutes late (oop) but once you get used to it, there’s a mindset that sets in. Nothing matters as much as we think it does. Not in a fatalistic way, just nothing is all that permanent or life altering. Small cracks break open gorgeous geodes. 

After 3 days of walking along lakeshores and skipping rocks, watching the ripples fade away, I hopped on the train to Venice. Something that comes up often during my adventures in Italy is the importance of family. Family vacations, family owned shops, family recipes, I decide if I ever have children I’d absolutely have to take them to Italy at least once. There is a safety and comfort in the haze of sunny afternoons and plazas with just a few shops. Sunny days, pasta with an ocean view, molten gelato running down my fingers as I run to the bus stop, youth frozen in a frame. 

In the words of Zack and Cody, this must be the sweet life. Lazy days spent by the water, ferries gently rippling through robins egg blue water in Venice, children giggling in the background. Life is a cone of gelato, sweetness dribbling off the ends. Never have I felt so lucky to be alive as I do amongst the movie set that is northern Italy. Motor boats rip through the water in Burano, a fishing village off of Venice, glass beads clink in Murano, another village nearby Venice known for molten glass. Seagulls soar through the air. I’ve learned to love mornings in Italy, young couples dot sidewalks, sat in outdoor cafes, cappuccinos on hand. Older couples stroll along the walking path, greet me with a gentle “buon giorno” when I break out of my daze, a wistful look in my eyes. I decide Venice must be one of God’s favorite places on Earth. It has wedged a place in my heart. Foggy mornings spent walking along the water feel straight out of a dream sequence. As I walk down streets filled with rainbow houses I’m hit with the same two thoughts, “people get to live like this?” and “how lucky am I to be alive right now, in this moment?” It’s been a long running joke that I’d sit and stare at water for hours if I could as a kid, and as an adult there have been several days over the past week that I’ve done just that. All this time I thought Europe was magic, a potion that cured me of my daily illness. Every day felt like the same one on loop for my first two years at Tech. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be more out there. And I couldn’t have been more right. There is so much more, but there is also the same pieces of life that can be found in our own backyards. I’ve set my sights on the dolce vita. While I’d love to spend a year or two working in Europe post graduation, I want to implement some European normalities into my daily life. Eating mindfully, being present in every moment, walking more, living a bit slower. There are always a few dead giveaways of foreigners in Europe. They walk a little too fast for their own good, smile at strangers, eat while they walk, and talk loudly just to name a few. Not that any of these are bad things, they’re just in such stark contrast to the European backdrop. Live and let live is an important observation I’ve noticed lately. Shop owners are a bit friendlier in more touristy areas, probably in response to the customer service lifestyle of tourists, but many shop owners barely look up when guests enter and continue on their way. There’s something so comforting about being given the space to exist at your own rhythm. Others unpack shipments, pull carts along the sidewalk, and debone fish for morning markets. Existence is so sweet, how foolish of me to think otherwise for so long.

Hopped off the Train at LUX

Written by Swati

February 17th, 2023

When in doubt: hop in a moving vehicle. Wait, maybe not literally. I am a big proponent of changes of scenery, and there’s something particularly comforting about seeing some new faces and watching trees pass from a moving window. Something about galavanting through the world on public transport makes you feel limitless, just unstoppable. 

Many of you know this by now, but public transport in Europe is far and wide. As current GTE students gear up to start our spring breaks, let’s talk a little more about the modes of public transport you’ll be frequenting as a student and how to navigate them! As with anything, understanding train lines, bus routes, and flight terminals take time, but doing a little bit of reading ahead of time will definitely ease some of the anxiety. 

Shuttle: On Monday evenings, GTE has a personal shuttle waiting at the bus stop in front of Cora for students to catch back to campus after their weekly grocery shop! While I don’t frequent Cora any longer (see: C’est pas drôle from a few weeks ago) and favor the much smaller and more palatable Auchan, the benefits of having shuttle waiting to take you back to campus with a week’s worth of groceries instead of making the 20 minute trek back can really make a difference for your shoulders after a long day of class. 

Buses: The GTE campus and primary dorms are situated nearby many of the city’s bus stops running routes to places in downtown Metz like the train station, the Centre Pompidou, Metz Cathedral, and other neighborhoods along the way. Most bus routes can be found on transportation apps Moovit and Omio, but I’ve found Google Maps to be linked to the routes and times perfectly. When you get on the bus, you’ll tap your bus card, a blue pass with options for 1-way, round-trip, 10-way, and monthly passes purchased through Le Met. You can grab a 1-way or round trip pass directly from the bus driver when you enter the bus, or purchase a 1-way, round trip, or 10 way pass at any bus stop downtown! You can also purchase unlimited monthly passes at Le Met’s store downtown, but seeing as how I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, I’ve found the 10-way passes to work best for me. Make sure you remember to tap your card as public service workers frequent buses with a scanner to check that passengers all have valid bus passes that they used to get on the bus. If you haven’t tapped a pass, you’re subject to a hefty fine! 

Trains: My personal favorite! Trains run far and wide and Metz is the perfect location to easily get to different countries and cities, especially with a Eurail pass! It takes less than an hour to get to Luxembourg, my first stop to catch a flight on my spring break adventure, and under 5 hours to get to cities in Belgium, Amsterdam, Switzerland, and Germany! With Paris just an hour away, you’re free to hop on and catch the Eiffel Tower sparkling after class (just make sure to get a reservation beforehand!) 

Be aware that while Eurail passes essentially function as train tickets across Europe, there are high-volume cities and countries you’ll need to reserve seats for! France, Italy, Spain, and Portugal are included in the places that require seat reservations for an extra fee! You won’t be able to board a train to major destinations in these countries without a copy (physical or digital) of your reservation alongside your Eurail pass. 

Flights: It’s no secret RyanAir and EasyJet have European college students in the palms of their hands. With strongholds in smaller airports, expect a bit of a trek to and from these cheap flight hubs. RyanAir runs in several airports in France, but the one you’ll probably see as the most relevant is the airport in Beauvais. A tiny little thing with just 2 terminals, I spent the day exploring Beauvais prior to my flight to Scotland and left a little piece of my heart in the city. You won’t need to get to the airport any more than an hour to an hour and a half ahead of your flight because it’s so small and there’s really only one restaurant inside and another little shop with snacks and magazines next to it. Many tend to lean away from this airport as it is two train transfers away from Metz, but I loved the city too much to have anything bad to say about it. It has a similar small French town charm of Metz with a breathtaking cathedral and tourist stops along the way. Many favor the Luxembourg airport for its proximity, but I’d recommend taking just one flight out of Beauvais if there’s a destination you’d like to go to that flights out of Luxembourg don’t reach!

It’s no secret that the accessible, well-managed, and often clean methods of public transportation make Europe a well-oiled machine. With enough patience and willpower, you too can soon be on 15-hour long train journeys to Prague or Rome! Me on the other hand, I prefer to swap off between trains and airplanes based on time and cost efficiency. Happy traveling!