Alex's Summer at Sea

I’ve been home for about a month now, and have been trying to figure out how to put the finishing touches on the blog. I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with a clever ending to my trip, until I realized it’s impossible because the journey itself hasn’t ended. Looking back, while the voyage had a definitive beginning in Halifax, and a forced ending in Florida, the trip was an eye opening introduction to new cultures and experiences, providing a view of the opportunities and wonders that exist in other parts of the world. Though my summer at sea has come to an end, the impact, stories, photos, impressions and desire to understand more of the world will be with me forever.

So, I will stop here, by thanking all of you who have taken the time to read my attempt to put my travels into words, with a special appreciation of those who commented and kept in touch while I was thousands of nautical miles away, and in finally disclosing my hope that I will be fortunate enough to continue seeing the world and sharing my thoughts and photos with all of you. Happy Trails --

There’s still lots to say, but just not enough time to write it all, in addition to finishing things up on the ship, packing up, and saying goodbye to people. However, I promise one final entry wrapping everything up to be posted in the next couple of days. Before I close the journey in words, I’ve got some (ok, a lot of) photos to share with you that I haven’t yet posted. Let’s hope your internet connection is faster than the one on the ship so that you can see all of them! PS. I don't have enough internet minutes left to check if everything uploaded correctly, and blogger's image upload is acting up...so we'll see how this all comes out.

Iceland:

A church in the middle of nowhere:

Thingvellir National Park:

The biggest waterfall I’ve ever seen:

Norway:

The train to Voss:

Little boxes, on the hillside:

View of Bergen from Mt. Floien:

Russia:

Inside the Kremlin:

Inside a church inside the Kremlin:

Poland:

Rebuilt buildings in Gdansk:

Belgium:

A square in Brussels:


A castle in Ghent:

We passed through the Kiel Canal on the way to Belgium from Poland. It’s a waterway in Northern Germany usually only used by smaller ships, rarely large passenger ships. Lots of people living along the canal were so excited to see us, including this couple waving as we went by:


France:

A home in Le Havre:


A Magen David amongst crosses in Normandy:

Ireland:

One of my favorite parts of Ireland, St. Stephen’s Green, a park built right into the middle of the city:

Inside the Guinness Factory:

Spain:

A sculpture in Guernica:

A fountain in Bilbao, in front of a Metro entrance:

The hills of Bilbao through a fountain in the city center:

Homeward Bound:

Sunsets, sunsets:

The skies are so clear along the Atlantic, and last night we had a full moon:

I’m still here, it’s just been hard to find time to write – even on a 10 day voyage back to the US. My time has been split between end of term papers and finals and lots of time lying out on the pool deck enjoying the amazing weather on the seas. I still promise at least one more entry, so this won’t be the final one – trust me, I’ve still got more to say.

A bunch of people have asked me for rankings of the countries that I’ve visited, and though it’s of course tough to rank countries on limited observation, here are a few “top 8’s” for you all.

Food:
1. Belgium – Fries, chocolate, waffles, beer…QED
2. France – knocked down from #1 in a shocker. Last time I was in France I ate really well (and paid for it). This time I tried to go a bit cheaper, so it was lots of bread, cheese, and Orangina.
3. Poland – Surprise! The food is rich, but it’s cheap and really filling. I took a 9-hour walking tour of Krakow, and pretty much survived off of a big plate of potato and cheese Pierogi -- one of the best meals of the trip.
4. Norway – pretty much just for the soft serve ice cream dipped in Nesquik.
5. Spain – The Spanish omelet was delicious, but it fell a bit in the ranking as it was served with a baguette, not a New York style onion bagel lightly toasted.
6. Russia – Not as bad as one would expect, but since the pasteurizing process isn’t quite there yet, they boil all of the milk; unfortunately, they don’t cool it down, so my cereal and milk turned to corn-flake-oatmeal pretty quickly.
7. Ireland – there’s a reason you only hear about Beer from this country.
8. Iceland – though I didn’t eat any of them, their gastronomic specialties include boiled sheep’s head, cow testicle and shark fin that is filled with mercury so it has to be buried under sand for months before it can be eaten; it’s said to have the odor of a fine cheese. I ate Italian.

Girls:
1. NOR-freakin-WAY. Ajhfdakljerjklcaljkd!
2-8. Countries that aren’t Norway.

Architecture:
1. Belgium – homes characteristic of Hanseatic league cities; think Amsterdam, but spotlessly clean.
2. France – spending time in small Le Havre and enormous Paris gave a sense of the contrast of two distinct parts of France, but both were striking – Paris for its grandeur and Le Havre for its quaint flavor.
3. Russia – granted, I only spent time in the two most magnificent cities in Russia – St. Petersberg and Moscow – but the palaces, the onion domes, and the color were spectacular. I don’t think Siberia is known for its design, though.
4. Norway – similar to Belgium, as it was also a major trading port, but what makes it stand out is its use of public space – parks and fountains – including one large pond in the city center which fills with the reflection of the narrow colorful homes of Bergen.
5. Ireland – while the city itself is a bit bland right now, with all the construction occurring it’s clear that the city is transforming itself as we speak.
6. Iceland – the country is known for its nature – which it does better than any other place in the world I’ve been – but the buildings themselves are simple.
7. Poland – Blame the low ranking on the Germans, who virtually destroyed Gdansk during WWII. It’s been rebuilt, but it’s not quite the same knowing you’re only seeing a replica.
8. Spain – I didn’t make it out to Barcelona or Madrid, but I think if I had, Spain might be higher.

Finally, though there have been so many moments on the trip I’ll remember, I want to share a few highlights with you, many of which I haven’t yet told you about.
• The Icelandic superjeep trip. You all know I love to describe things, but it’s been two months and I still can’t put the trip into words.
• Our ship pulling away from Iceland. We left about 11 PM, which, at that latitude, is time for sundown. The buildings began fading away into the horizon just as the sun was dipping down, resulting in a colorful panoramic of Reykjavik, further complimented by the kite drifting with the whim of the boat induced winds.
• White water rafting in Norway. It was the first sunny day since winter. Light blue skies, navy blue water flowing between tall green pines, as we first time rafters (somehow) navigated the rapids without a single flip, before floating alongside the raft downstream to our destination.
• Hiking Mt. Floien in Norway. An incredible contrast as our hike began at the ship, traversing through the urban areas, before making our way up the biggest mountain in Bergen suddenly removing us from the hustle of the city. From the top was a 360-degree view of the city, a great photo-op, and a chance for the urban-geographer in me to observe the city from above.
• Field trip with my IR class to the St. Petersburg School of International Relations where we heard from Russian professors on, among other things, the state of Russia today. While the event can’t compare to the superjeep or the rafting in terms of excitement, it presented a number of interesting dimensions of Russia for me to consider. I’m still trying to make sense of what I think of Russia today, in terms or its politics, economics, and society, but I take some comfort in what Winston Churchill famously said: Russia is a mystery inside of a riddle wrapped in an enigma. I’m still wrestling with my thoughts on the country, but if I can figure them out, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Sorry, I’m going to have to cut it short here, because I want to make sure I post something today, but need to spend some time working on an essay. Stay tuned for more.

I’m writing this entry just as we’re getting ready to pull away from Bilbao and head out to the Atlantic for an 11-day journey back to Florida. It’s hard to put into words quite yet how it feels, but it’s an incredibly exciting sense, knowing that we’re headed back to the States, but at the same time coming back after seeing eight different countries, cultures, and going through countless experiences. Keep checking back, as between now and the 21st, I’ll be posting some more stories from Spain, a couple of blogs that I wrote but somehow got lost in the quick shuffle between countries, and some Springeresque “Final Thoughts.” Until then, an overview of Bilbao:

Bilbao struck me as a city that is style over substance. The famous Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao, serves as a symbol for this dichotomy. The building itself, designed by the architectural wonder Frank Gehry, is without a doubt a site to behold. Nestled along the river that divides old-town from the new, it is an enormous sandstone building topped off with swirling metal panels that reach high into the Spanish sky. On a sunny day – and what else is there, here? – the light bounces off of the silver, creating at once a shimmer and a sheen that says this isn’t just a regular building – it’s a building that Bilbao has centered its restructured economy around.

The inside of the building, however, is a different story. It’s a typical Guggenheim – not afraid to take chances. The modern art contained within the spectacular building struck me as doing a disservice to Gehry’s brilliance. Let me highlight a couple of examples that will show what I mean. One piece of “art” in the museum is a cardboard box (flattened), attached to a blank white wall. On the box, are a couple smaller pieces of cardboard stapled to it. Not surprisingly, the piece of art is entitled “cardboard box.” The medium used is listed as “cardboard box, with cardboard fragments.” Now, believe, me, I’m the first to admit that I don’t appreciate much art, especially not modern art, so perhaps it’s me not understanding the art. On the other hand…it’s a cardboard box.

The second piece of “art” that I want to highlight is not so much a piece of art, but rather a gigantic hallway of the museum filled with larger than life panels arranged in waves and spirals, through which the art aficionados are supposed to walk. We’re reminded it’s not just “art,” it’s a “personal artistic experience.” I walked through it. I wandered in and out of spirals, and the only art I found therein was the grace and style needed to walk in and out of the panels when there are two directions of people walking and only room enough for one and a half at a time. The famed NY Times art critic, Michael Kimmelman, who is notoriously tough, called this piece a “deeply humane work.” While I certainly didn’t find it inhumane, it’s just a glorified corn-field maze, that is supposed to summon forth my inner Picaso. If you’re wondering, Pablo is still lost inside of me.

A second example of style over substance is the city’s recently built Metro system. It is, hands down, the nicest underground I’ve ever been on, and I’ve ridden quite a few. The entrances are sleek sloped glass cones with escalators leading down to sub-Bilbao. The trains are ultra modern, and the stations are clean and futuristic looking. The ride itself, though, is slow, the wait between trains is too long, and the stops aren’t far-reaching enough. It’s beautiful, but not an especially effective means of transportation – the antithesis of the DC metro, which is a bit ugly and grimy, but man does it get the job done. The metro, along with the museum, highlights the gap in Bilbao between essence and essentials.

Part of my negative view of the city comes because we visited at the wrong time – in two senses of the word. The first, is that Bilbao is a rebuilding economy, like Pittsburg devastated from the loss of the steel industry. It has some brand new infrastructure (hello metro), and some cultural highlights (Guggenheim, what), but is lacking the guts that make a city special. I think that despite the above comments, Bilbao will restructure itself to be a strong city again, but we happened to visit at a time when it is not at its strongest. Secondly, we visited in August, when nearly all Spaniards are on “holiday” elsewhere in Spain and Europe. Therefore, the city felt emptier than I’m sure it is at other times during the year. I think that it would be interesting to head back to Bilbao in maybe 10 years, during the spring or fall, and see how that Bilbao compares to the one I just saw.
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The inside of the metro:

A dog, made of flowers, in front of the Guggenheim:

The Guggenheim showing through the streets of Bilbao:

A picture I took of the Spirals, which, by the way, is forbidden; you are reminded constantly not to take pictures inside the humane exhibit. (If you are from Guggenheim security and you are reading this, “oops, sorry, I forgot.”)

This should highlight the craziness that is SAS: this entry about Dublin, Ireland, was written aboard a moving ship in the Bay of Biscay, and is now being posted in a small internet café in Bilbao, Spain. Also, the blogger page automatically loads in Spanish here, so we´ll see if I managed to figure it all out to post.
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Our ship was docked about 15 minutes away from the city center, in the middle of a huge cargo-terminal. We had a shuttle that would run from the ship to the city during the day, but it stopped running at night, which meant that we had to spend our hard earned Euros on cabs at night. While they were certainly expensive, the cab drivers in Dublin are unquestionably the best in Europe. They love to talk (and talk, and talk…) and virtually all rides begin with “so, should I point out some sights along the way?” In reality, it’s an inconsequential question anyway, because it seems that the tour-guiding service is included in cab fare. The best cabbie I had was when I left the Guinness factory on the second day, taking a short trip to the shuttle stop. Along the way I had asked for some of his recommendations on places to go for food and other sites to see. Not only did he have a recommendation for all of them, when we came to the destination he pulled out a map, and started scribbling on it. When he was done, he had personalized a map for me with all of the places he had talked about (plus more), and had given an “Irish-English to English” pronunciation guide for me for a couple of the confusing names. He turned around to hand it to me, and as I stuck out my hand he said, “Wait a minute.” He turned back around, grabbed a couple of highlighters and created an ad hoc path for me to follow to make sure I fit in his Dublin highlights. He got a nice tip.
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One of my favorite bands is an Irish group called The Saw Doctors (thank you, Blake). I managed to see them once in concert in the US, and became a big fan, though it was hard (actually, impossible) to find any Saw Doctors albums in the US, even at major record stores like Amoeba. Therefore, one of my main goals when I got to Dublin was to find me some Saw Doctors albums. I’m happy to report I managed to pick up a couple of discs, and I impressed cabbies not once, but twice, when I mentioned I liked the group. I haven’t had the chance to surf the Internet to find out yet, but one of the cabbies told me that one of the band members won the lottery. If you find this interesting (i.e. if you are Blake), check it out and tell me if it’s true.

I have to say, though, that despite a lot of clamoring in the US about the death of mom and pop record shops, Ireland taught me how nice it is to be able to walk into a Tower in the US and find exactly what you want. There aren’t really any big record stores in Dublin, all are small, with inventory for the whole store that would fit inside of the spoken word section at your local Virgin Record store. That meant that even though the Saw Doctors are pretty popular in Ireland, they had to compete for quite limited shelf space with other Irish and American bands, not to mention the “grand” Euro-pop-techno-dance-mix-rave-trance albums. Also, going to Ireland has helped me appreciate some of things the Saw Doctors sing about a bit better, as I now understand that their song N17 isn’t about marijuana use, but rather about a highway leading to their hometown in Western Ireland, and I can now picture places they’re talking about in their song “Galway and Mayo.”
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The Irish, in my mind, are the wittiest people I’ve ever met. Of course there’s satirist Oscar Wilde, but even the “regular folk” have a great sense of humor. The tour guide on my city-orientation tour was a little old lady, but boy did she have a mouth on her! Also, they have perhaps the best-named store ever: “Knobs and Knockers.” What do they sell there? Door accessories, of course: knobs, handles, decorations, etc.
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I took a tour of the Guinness factory, but have to say it’s incredibly overrated. In fact, it’s not a factory tour, but rather a 15-minute walk through the process of making beer. Then you have 5 stories to go up, each floor with a few interesting displays, until you reach the seventh story “gravity bar,” which has a panoramic view of Dublin, and a free pint of the “Black magic.” The only part of the tour worthwhile was a section where visitors could fill out postcards and post them to a large kiosk. Most of the cards would be a combination of mentioning their love for Guinness and a “shout out” to their home-town or country. It was really quite cool to see countries as far away as South Africa and Brazil represented on the board.
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Looks like uploading photos isn´t working...sorry, I´ll post them later

It’s been a while since I’ve posted to the blog, so I figured I should at least get a couple of thoughts (and photos) on Dublin up. This is just the intro; stay tuned for the rest of my Ireland experience.
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For those of you that are tired of reading me write endlessly about food in the last couple of ports, rest assured I won’t discuss food in Ireland, for, in truth, it would be a woeful, depressing tale.

Now, to the topic of the blog. On Monday night we decided to do a musical pub crawl through Dublin’s “Temple Bar” area. A pub crawl, for those of you not in the know, can be thought of as a sight-seeing tour where the only sights are pubs and glasses, and the seeing gets harder as the night goes on. The musical aspect that made this tour unique was that we had a guitar player and a fiddler travel with us to each pub, playing traditional Irish music in each venue, while explaining to us some foundations of Irish rhythms and melodies.

What is especially interesting about Dublin’s pub culture is how diverse and all-inclusive it is. Previous pub crawls I have been on in other countries were filled with 19-25 year olds only; in Dublin, the crawl, and the pubs themselves, are filled with people everywhere from 18-60(+), Much to my surprise, one of my fellow ‘crawlers was not only the Dean of Semester at Sea, but also my International Relations professor. At the beginning of our voyage, our Executive Dean told us “nothing about Semester at Sea is normal.” This pub-crawl could be the quintessential SAS is not normal moment. Granted, I really like my Professor, and we said hello, and then talked a bit later on in the night, but regardless I don’t think I’ll ever find one of my Geography professors not only sitting with me in Maloney’s, but then following me across the street to BrewCo. Certainly one of those unique Semester at Sea moments that I won’t forget.
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The US Ambassador to Ireland came on board the ship for a tour and to address the faculty and senior passengers right before we set sail. A few lucky students, including myself, were invited to attend the briefing as well. The event was held in the faculty/staff lounge, which is normally off limits to students, therefore, for us, it was like breaking through to a magical wonderland where drinks are free, and the finger sized snack food flows to no end. After an hour or so of milling about in the SAS-VIP room, the Ambassador showed up and spoke briefly to the group. He gave a rundown of US-Ireland relations, and talked about some recent Irish political developments and then, yielded the floor for questions -- A couple of softball queries, and then some good ones from my favorite card carrying Democrat faculty members. One asked the Ambassador about the Bolton nomination to the UN, to which the Ambassador gave a skillfully diplomatic answer until he mentioned that the UN is a flawed organization and Americans aren’t happy about spending $2 Billion without anything to show for it. Something tells me it’s not the UN part of the equation we’re unhappy with; maybe, I dunno, it’s the us ignoring them part, Mr. Ambassador.
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Until the next Dublin installment, I leave you with a few photos of the city and the pub crawl:

The gate leading out of St. Stephen’s Green – a fantastic park with a duck pond and foliage located right in the heart of the city:

The famous Ha’penny bridged, thus named because back in the day it cost half a penny to cross. Good thing they don’t charge to cross the bridge nowadays, with the Euro exchange rate and all, it would cost Ha’penny times 1.2:

One of the last stops on the pub crawl:

What a grand idea! Your date thinks you’re just going to empty out the 2 pints you just drank, but really, thanks to that euro coin in your pocket, you’re going to emerge from the restroom smelling better than you ever have before. Brilliant:

Yeah, pretty much I’m just posting this picture because it’s me with three girls. (No, I’m not wearing vend-a-scent):

I was strolling the streets of Le Havre, checking out the architecture, wandering in and out of the small shops (and yes, a Footlocker, where inexplicably they don’t have a single pair of shorts in the entire store; so much for France being the center of fine fashion), when I came across an impressive hat store. It was a small, very fancy boutique with a window display that probably had enough hats for all of the residents of Le Havre. My dad is into the newsboy style caps, so I thought I would have a look to see if I couldn’t find a hat to bring back for him. I then saw the perfect cap. It was brownish-corduroy, very elegant, so I decided I would pick one up for him. Then I remembered something: the size of his head. For my UCLA friends, my dad wears a size 7 5/8 hat, which in European sizes probably figures to something like ExtraGrandeMaximum.

I walk in the boutique, where a pleasant old lady is minding the postage stamp sized store. We exchange our bonjour’s, and then I get to business. “Parlez-vous l’anglais?” I ask her, probably sounding more Texan than French. She shakes her head no. This should be interesting, I think to myself. Using a combination of mmm’s, ahh’s, and this’s and that’s, I direct her to the hat that I’m interested in. At this point, though, I have to explain to her that I want the biggest possible hat she has, not one for me. I, myself, don’t have a huge head, so she immediately picks out a hat that fits my noggin. I tell her no, and put out my hands as wide as I can, and tell her “like this!” She begins rummaging through the inventory, all the while speaking French, I suppose in the hopes that I either suddenly pick up the romance language, or that she stumbles upon a cognate I might recognize. She comes back with the same style hat just a bit larger. I try it on my own head for size, only to find it still fits me fairly well. “Bigger,” I tell her again, while making an even more exaggerated hand movement. She keeps on speaking French, milling around the back of the store and comes back with two more sizes of the hat, both just slightly larger than the one I tried on. I try them both on, seeing that they are slightly too big for me, but not nearly big enough for my Dad’s head. I give her one more “Like this” – arms wide – but she shakes her head no. I finally shrug my shoulders, give her a heartfelt “Merci,” and walk out the door. I can only imagine what she was thinking. I bet she never had someone walk in the store, try on 1 hat that fit them, 2 more that were too big, and walk out unsatisfied that the size that was too big, wasn’t “too big” enough. Stupid American.
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I spent most of my time in France around Le Havre, but figured that since we were only 2.5 hours away from Paris, I had to spend at least one day there. I was in Paris this past New Year’s, where I found the city to contain perhaps the largest gap between the attractiveness of the city, and the haughtiness of the residents. This time around, I have to say I was much more impressed with the people – I found them to be quite welcoming, and incredibly appreciative when I would attempt the few French words I knew (although, of course, I never let on that I, in fact, know all of the words to Frere jaque).

When I was last in Paris, I went to most all of the must-see sights, except for one: the Arc de Triumph. So, I decided with the day I had in Paris, I would spend it wandering the Champs Elysses, and seeing just how triumphant their arc really is. Right around the Arc is a wonder in and of itself: a 5-lane traffic turnabout with no stoplights. There are only two cops who control the traffic, and somehow, between the tourist busses, small mopeds and Renaults, keep traffic moving – incredible. To access the arc itself, you must walk under the turnabout via an underground tunnel. I reached the arc and decided to pay my 5 Euro to climb to the top. The climb itself is not for the claustrophobic, those scared of heights, those scared of crowds, those scared of heat or humidity, or those scared of being in close proximity to awkwardly dressed tourists. But after a couple hundred steps I finally made it out of the stairwell…and right into the gift shop. I decide to pass on an official Arc de Triumph placemat, and make my way out on top for the view. I have to say, as impressive as the view from the Eiffel Tower is, the view from the Arc is hands-down the best in Paris. From the Tur, you are so high up that the monstrosity that is Paris almost seems like a little pretend city. From the Arc, however, not only are you centrally located, you have magnificent sight lines, looking out towards the Champs Elysses, admiring how it seems to stretch on infinitely (and imagining Lance riding through with his yellow jersey on), and you get the Parisian skyline with the Eiffel. Only from a height like the Arc can you see just how impressive the Eiffel Tower, and the entire city of Paris really is.
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I hope you’ll forgive me for all of the food-talk lately, but seeing as how I am in two of the food capitals of the world – Belgium and France – the culinary sides deserve their due respect here. I love the little Cafes of France, where the menus revolve around Baguettes, salads and coffees. The baguettes – sandwiches – are especially notable for how much taste they get out of such simple ingredients. For 4 Euro, I had a footlong (or should I say 1/3 meterlong) Baguette with chicken, tomato, mozzarella, and aioli. None of the ingredients by themselves were that special – besides of course the amazing bread – but the combination was fantastic. Also, most of you know what a big international Fanta fan I am. France prefers Orangina, and I have to say after 5 days here, I’m pretty hooked on the slightly pulpy wonder, myself. I have a feeling that when I’m home in September, we’ll add Orangina to the BevMo list. Back to the bread for a second; before leaving Le Havre, I walked into port and for 1 Euro, purchased my very own long baguette to bring back to the ship. I proudly carried my carb-loaded trophy like a baton on my walk back; I’m sure quite a few Le Havrans were impressed by this American’s taste in bread
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I spent my final day in France visiting the beaches of Normandy where D-day occurred some 60 years ago. It was quite a sight to see the landscape near the beaches forever changed with gigantic ditches and holes, all the result of bombs. I also visited the American cemetery where about 10,000 Americans are buried. I’ve been to Arlington National, but I found this cemetery to be the most moving, if for no other reasons than the suddenness of the deaths, and the respectful burial site established thousands of miles away from home.
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Unfortunately the internet is way too slow to upload pictures right now. Come back soon for some photos of France.

Two blog posts today, including a report on Belgium, but first an update on our voyage. Due to the recent bombings in London, Semester at Sea has decided to switch our next port of call away from the UK, choosing instead Le Havre, France. Le Havre is located in Northern France, and is about 2.5 hours away from Paris by train.

I try to stay away from editorializing too much in this blog, choosing instead to share my experiences with you all, but I think it’s important to state my disappointment with this decision. While the terrorist attacks are both tragic and scary, there are still plenty of people living in the city going about their lives as usual – or at least a very close approximation to it. While there has been a dropoff in the number of citizens using the Tube for transportation, the trains are far from empty. This suggests that Londoners are willing to go about their lives without letting terrorism rule every decision. Even after these terrorist attacks, I don’t feel any less safe going to London than I do any big city, especially Washington DC, perhaps the world’s top terrorist target, where I just spent 10 weeks. This isn’t a reckless, carefree attitude, but rather a rational analysis of the impact of terrorism, and my insistence that suicide bombers won’t stop me from exploring and experiencing important places in the world. Unfortunately, I believe that the decision to divert our voyage away from London was done so out of fear of public opinion rather than rational fear of bodily harm. This voyage is supposed to show us the world, and, regrettably, terrorism has become part of our everyday lives. This, however, does not mean that we should shy away from any situation in which there is danger. Further, at times like this, it’s important to support affected areas, and what better way to show our support than to visit as scheduled. What happens if more groups of otherwise eager travelers are turned away from visiting London because of a couple of attacks? Should that be enough to turn a public-transportation system into a ghost train, or to transform one of the world’s most storied cities into no-man’s land? Even in the midst of these attacks, I still believe that London is safer than Moscow, a city we all visited and came out not only unscathed, but better for the experience.

This news of course, will not stop me from enjoying our next port – as much as I wanted to see London and possibly make a trip out to the links of St. Andrews. However, with not much time to plan, I’d like to know if any of you have traveled to northern France before, and if so, what tips you might have for places to see. I may go to Paris, but I was just there in December, and would like to see other parts, so all suggestions are welcome.

Now on to better things: Belgium.

First of all, thank you to all of you who wanted to make sure I did, in fact, eat a waffle in Belgium. Rest assured I had two for myself, as well as tastes of my friend’s waffles, and enjoyed them all. Waffles in Belgium, it should be noted, are not quite like their American cousins. Waffles in Antwerp more closely resemble fried cake. Also, you can forget asking for “a little syrup” on your waffles. Here, you choose a couple of toppings which range from whipped cream and cherries (my personal favorite), to a chocolate coating, to Icecream, whipped cream, sprinkles and chocolate sauce as one of the girls I was with had. Amazingly, it seems despite how many things you can think of throwing on top of a waffle, the price it seems never tops 3 Euros.

I spent most of my time in Antwerp walking around the city, going in shops and stores and taking photos as I pleased. This was a pleasant break from all of the group travel I had done in Russia and Poland where our organized trips were filled with “hurry up and wait.” On those trips you don’t get a chance to see things you want to see for as long as you want to see them, and are always beholden to a tour guide, who, in Moscow was a fierce little lady. My time in Antwerp reminded me of the amazing time I had this past winter in Europe with Justin and Mark, where we spent most of our time, at our own leisure, exploring the cities at ground level.

In the short time I was there, we managed to find a bar that became our main hangout; it was, in many respects the best of globalization: an Irish pub atmosphere, Belgian beer, and American music. The beer in Belgium is very simple to order. There are hundreds of local breweries, but each one puts out just two types of beer: blonde (light), or bruin (dark). I took special enjoyment in purposely mispronouncing my order, asking for a “Bruin,” instead of a “Brooooon.” When I get back to Westwood, I’m going to go talk to Maloney’s and tell them to only stock Belgian Bruin beer; I don’t think they’ll listen to me.

I wrote about my obsession with Norway’s obsession with Americana on their t-shirts; Belgium’s fashion was almost as entertaining. My favorite items were a series of shirts that apparently assume that California and Florida are the same state, as they offered Abercrombie style shirts that said “Santa Monica Boulevard Lifegard, Miami Beach Florida,” and “Santa Monica, Florida Surf contest.” Apparently Belgians have decided that just because two American regions are sunny and have beaches, they must be the same, even if they lie 3000 miles from each other. If nothing else, I’m glad Belgians are envious of Santa Monica, and not Rhode Island, as the Norwegians are.

I leave you with some photos of my time in Belgium, and, a semi-promise to finish writing and post more experiences from Russia and Poland.

Apparently Lorenzo Mata has given up on basketball and opened up a restaurant in Antwerp:

A couple of photos from the afternoon I spent in Ghent – about an hour from Antwerp:


The Antwerp Cathedral at night:

Yeah, I am obsessed with the flags:

If you were to start a city and choose a couple of foods upon which your local cuisine would center, I have a feeling you would probably end up selecting ones very similar to Belgium’s specialties. It’s hard to argue with the delicacies here: Belgian waffles, Belgian fries, Belgian chocolate, and Belgian beer.

Our first night in Antwerp started off with dinner at a cozy little café, where I had the classic Belgian specialty: the “One Night in Bangkok Chicken Sandwich.” With the sandwich I asked what kind of beer our waitress recommended; she told me the most popular is a beer called Jupiler, so I gave that a try. It’s an excellent beer, especially since I like lighter flavors, and the price was right – less than 1.90Euros, while a Fanta would have set me back 2.50 Euros.

A bit full from dinner, we wandered the streets of Antwerp with two goals in mind: explore the city, and make room for the Belgium fries. The city itself has a lot of character. Lots of old buildings, still in remarkable condition, line the narrow, curving streets. Much of the ground is still made of cobblestones, and a lot of the city is closed to cars, so pedestrians can walk around freely. There are also pockets of very interesting sections, including one small park, in the middle of the city, surrounded by walls covered in gorgeous, colorful graffiti. Along the waterfront where our ship is docked, are a series of fascinating flags hanging from light posts; each light post features two flags, each one with a caricature of a face. The faces range from whimsical cartoons to serious sketches, providing some atmosphere to an otherwise blasé waterfront.

After some exploring, we felt it was time to try the fries. There are numerous “Frituur’s” around the city, almost all with just a small storefront, and a very limited menu. We ordered the klein frites especial – small fries with mayonnaise. The fries come extremely hot, in a flimsy paper tray, with a huge dallop of mayonnaise on top (Uncle Mark: don’t even think about the especial; I have a feeling just seeing the photo of the mayo will make you sick). The fries her

If you were to start a city and choose a couple of foods upon which your local cuisine would center, I have a feeling you would probably end up selecting ones very similar to Belgium’s specialties. It’s hard to argue with the delicacies here: Belgian waffles, Belgian fries, Belgian chocolate, and Belgian beer.

Our first night in Antwerp started off with dinner at a cozy little café, where I had the classic Belgian specialty: the “One Night in Bangkok Chicken Sandwich.” With the sandwich I asked what kind of beer our waitress recommended; she told me the most popular is a beer called Jupiler, so I gave that a try. It’s an excellent beer, especially since I like lighter flavors, and the price was right – less than 1.90Euros, while a Fanta would have set me back 2.50 Euros.

A bit full from dinner, we wandered the streets of Antwerp with two goals in mind: explore the city, and make room for the Belgium fries. The city itself has a lot of character. Lots of old buildings, still in remarkable condition, line the narrow, curving streets. Much of the ground is still made of cobblestones, and a lot of the city is closed to cars, so pedestrians can walk around freely. There are also pockets of very interesting sections, including one small park, in the middle of the city, surrounded by walls covered in gorgeous, colorful graffiti. Along the waterfront where our ship is docked, are a series of fascinating flags hanging from light posts; each light post features two flags, each one with a caricature of a face. The faces range from whimsical cartoons to serious sketches, providing some atmosphere to an otherwise blasé waterfront.

After some exploring, we felt it was time to try the fries. There are numerous “Frituur’s” around the city, almost all with just a small storefront, and a very limited menu. We ordered the klein frites especial – small fries with mayonnaise. The fries come extremely hot, in a flimsy paper tray, with a huge dallop of mayonnaise on top (Uncle Mark: don’t even think about the especial; I have a feeling just seeing the photo of the mayo will make you sick). The fries here are baked before being fried, so they are very crispy on the outside, and despite the excessive grease, really don’t feel that heavy while you eat them. I don’t know exactly what it is about the fries – perhaps it’s the combination of fried potatoes with globs of mayo – but as soon as you eat a few of them, you can feel it. We split a small portion, and didn’t even get to the bottom of the tray. How someone could finish a small, let alone a large portion, by themselves is beyond me. It is, however, my recommendation that Belgian frites be added to the traditional Yom Kippur dinner, because I think a tray of these things would definitely stick with you for at least 24 hours of atonement – they may even hold you over for a double-duty of davening.

Alas, after eating part of a small fries, in addition to my meal and Belgian beer, there was no way I could go for the “trifecta,” finishing off the night with a waffle. Fear not, however, as the waffle is high on my to-do list tomorrow in exploring the city.

I leave you with some photos of the evening:

Street scene:


Graffiti:


Flags:

Fries:

First of all, thank you to those of you that sent your birthday wishes to me, even if I was thousands of miles away. It was great to hear from all of you. Secondly, thanks to all of you for posting comments, it’s nice to see that people are reading the blog and I’m not just writing to the great abyss of cyberspace, and I enjoy hearing your thoughts on my stories and photos.

As I’ve said many times before, life on the ship is very hectic. We will be in Belgium in three days, but before then I’ve got lots of tests and papers (yes, you do have to do work on the ship). Then we are in Belgium for 4 days, on the ship for just 1, in London for 5 days, on the ship for just 1, then in Dublin for 4, then back on the ship for just 2 days, and then 5 days in Spain. Following Spain we have a leisurely 11 day cruise back to Florida. Everything goes by so quickly that it’s hard to believe I’m about halfway done.

I’m working on a write-up of my time in Poland, but in the meantime I thought I would share with you some photos of us leaving various ports. Typically all passengers are required to be on board by 9 PM the day of disembarking. As you can imagine, despite the punishment of “docktime” whereby students must stay on the ship for a period of time in the next port, often students run late. As soon as the last passengers are on board, we pick up the anchor and begin to pull out of the harbor.

One of my favorite parts of the trip has been going up to the 7th deck, aft side, as the ship moves away from port. Since we have had such long days, even when we were leaving at 10-11PM, the sky was still bright, before falling to some beautiful sunsets. I always take my camera with me, and usually sit there for an hour or so, watching both the horizon and the sky change before my eyes.

Here are some photos from our ship leaving various ports:

Leaving Icleand:
One of the senior passengers has a kite that he enjoys flying as our ship pulls away, taking advantage of the ship’s movement to provide ample wind speed to lift it up. Though there have been some portentous moments where the kite falls to the side of the ship, out of view, or gets tangled in lights or other structures on the ship, I believe the kite is still alive and well, though I didn’t see it last night. 2 photos of the kite, with Iceland’s skyline behind:


2 photos from leaving Norway:



2 photos from leaving Russia:

After two days of seeing the sights in St. Petersburg, I (along with about 70 other Semester at Sea kids) jumped on a night train to Moscow. The train itself was 20 cars long, featuring private berths of 2 or 4 beds depending on what class you’re in. I signed up for 1st class, not wanting to test secondary status in the Russian train system. As it turned out, even in 1st class (which wasn’t much different from 2nd), getting to Moscow rested, healthy, and sane is quite an accomplishment.

Allow me to introduce my first piece of evidence, a photo of the “facilities”:

The toilet was maybe 6 inches off the ground, which would have made things difficult for girls on the trip, had they even had the courage to enter the ominous room. The motif was stainless steel, with a rotten egg scent, and toilet paper resembling a cross between tissue paper and sand paper (provided, I suppose more as an incentive not to use the facilities than a hygienic necessity).

The bunk itself wasn’t too bad – they provided a potted fake flower and reading material (in Russian, of course). The beds were sofa-like, though quite small; I had to sleep on my side so that one of my shoulders wouldn’t be hanging off. They provided blankets and pillowcases for us; the blanket I reluctantly made use of, while happily substituting my shirt (those Gap T-shirts did come in handy), for a pillowcase.

The train departed right at midnight, and rolled into Moscow at 6:30. I spent the first hour or so of the train ride playing the quintessential long-train ride card game: Hearts. After a while, we decided to try and get some sleep, but between the small bed, and noisy train, it wasn’t easy to fall asleep. The scene reminded me of a 7th grade sleepover, where my roommate would ask me if I’m still up, at which point we would talk for a bit until we ran out of things to say and try to sleep, only to repeat the process again. I did manage to fall asleep, until I awoke to the strangely soothing voice of our Russian conductor telling us we were almost in Moscow.

On the way back, the train, though not physically much nicer than the first, provided much better amenities including a boxed breakfast with such delicacies as yogurt (apparently the Russians don’t like their produce refrigerated…), rolls (with the texture of a hacky-sack), dried salami and chocolate. They also provided, caring about our hygiene, a bag filled with wet-wipes, a comb, a mini-shoe horn, and my favorite, a small toothbrush and tiny tube of toothpaste, with the brand “toothpaste” on the side.

After one night of practice on a night train, the second night I actually got a few hours of sleep. We awoke when they turned on the radio over the intercom which was playing some Russian hip-hop. In the course of 5 hours, our train had switched from a night-train to the soul-train.

The time spent in-between sideways naps on the train was fantastic. If I get a chance before we get to Poland (i.e. tomorrow), I’ll share some more stories of my time there. In the meantime, here are some photos of the Russian seat of power:

Inside the Moscow Metro. Each stop has incredible artwork displayed inside, often in the form of murals or mosaics. This is in the Ukrania stop, which features images of the country of Ukraine and work by its people.

The famous church in red square, right by the tomb of Lenin.

My favorite sign in all of Russia: apparently it’s a warning that if you walk up the hill you’ll be decapitated.

One of the many churches inside the Kremlin.

The Moscow skyline, and a statue on the right with an interesting story. It was originally a statue to honor Christopher Columbus. Peter the Great, however, didn’t like the idea of a prominent statue like that not featuring him, so he ordered Christopher’s head removed, and his own head replaced on top of a memorial clearly meant for the explorer, not the Peter.

A quick story to share with you for now, but keep on the lookout for an update of my experiences in Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Outside of nearly every touristy place in Moscow there are the inevitable tables lined with “traditional” Russian souvenirs: fake Soviet snow hats, USSR pins, McLenin T-shirts, and rows and rows of Matryoshka (nesting) dolls. Whenever we would have time after seeing the sights, we would wander the tables, looking at the wares, all while trying not to make too much eye contact to avoid the pushy salespeople. Along a beautiful vista overlooking Moscow’s stadium and river, I strolled along, glancing at the tables, when suddenly the color of UCLA-football-helmet gold struck my eye. I look over, and there is a Matryoshka doll dressed in a UCLA football uniform. After my Pavlovian response to the color, I dart to the table to see if it is just a UCLA mirage after seeing far too many of the regular dolls for my own good. I get close, and see that, in fact, it is one of only a couple of sports dolls – Green Bay Packers, U of Michigan, and 49ers also represented. I take a closer look and see that the Matryoshka is in fact Drew Olson all suited up. I open it up and find Manny White nestled inside, as well as the receiving corps, and a tiny Maurice Drew in the center. I glance at the price tag – 1275 rubles – which is not so much a price tag as an opening bid for bartering. I asked the salesman how much he could give it to me for; he replies 1000. I have 950 rubles in my pocket, and I tell him, I can’t give you 1000, but I’ll give you the 950 in my pocket; I pull out my wad of 50’s (which by the way are about $1.60 US), and start counting them out for him. He tells me not to worry, that he believes me, bags up my doll, and sends me on my way.

I still can’t believe that even at the farthest I’ve ever been from home, there’s a reminder of my home campus, and even more unbelievable is thinking that someone sat down with the UCLA roster and a picture of the uniform and took the time to paint something so random. Regardless, it’s the best rubles I’ve ever spent.

A look at the lineup:

First of all a note: internet on the ship is finally back up after being down for a whole week, so not only am I almost halfway across the globe from home, I also felt quite isolated with communications. So, now that it's up, I'll try to respond to all of your emails as soon as I can. For now, here are a couple of blog entries about my time in Norway! Enjoy.

I spent my last day in Norway wandering the streets of Bergen observing this European city. This entry will recount some of my observations from my day in DTB-Downtown Bergen.

First, I have to say that the Norwegian girls are incredible. Seriously, I have never in my life been around a country, or a city for that matter, with girls as good looking as the ones in Bergen. I don’t know what they put in the 8% milk here in Norway, but wow, they left me speechless.

When I managed to pry myself away from looking at the girls, I was constantly amused by the Norwegian fascination with American culture, the pinnacle of which occurred when I wandered into a shop that must be Norway’s version of Abercrombie. In the store – which was blasting Maroon 5 and Ludacris – were t-shirts with English sayings that I couldn’t help but wonder about. Probably my favorite was a 3/4 length shirt that boldly said “SOUTH COUNTY RHODE ISLAND” on it. What Rhode Islander has enough state pride (or county pride, for that matter) to wear a shirt proudly displaying that they are from the smallest state in the union? Fear not, Rhode Islanders, there are Norwegian teens reppin’ for your state (and if you’re lucky enough to be from southern Rhode Island, your county as well). My other favorite shirts were knock-off NBA team shirts, however, due to either copyright issues, or confusion with a sport that’s not soccer (football), the shirts all featured the city and nickname of one team, with the logo of a different team. The Phoenix Suns shirt, for instance, proudly displayed the name on top of a green and yellow Seattle Sonics logo…

I went to purchase an international phone card to call back to the country Norwegian’s pretend to call home, only to find that the store didn’t accept my foreign Visa. “Don’t worry,” the cashier said, “there’s an ATM across the street at McDonalds.” So I headed across the street into an absolutely gorgeous white wooden building – decidedly golden arch free – with just a small script “McDonald’s” above the door. I walk in to use the ATM, and notice a woman working the register. Despite her french-fry grease stained McD’s tanktop, she is gorgeous, and almost made me want to order the Kyelling McPita they offered, but I resisted the temptation to “act American” on this trip, and instead headed to the ATM. In Iceland the exchange rate is 6.45 Kroners to the dollar, which I must have confused with the Icelandic exchange rate of 65 Kroners to the dollar, because as I selected the amount of money to withdraw, thinking I was taking out about $15 US equivalent, I accidentally took out $150 US. Of course there’s no return option on the ATM when I realized I took out about ten-times too much, and my French-fry lady didn’t even notice that I’m a big roller with 1000 Kroners. So, I am left with about 700 Kroners, as the ship is about to sail away. If you’re planning a trip to Norway, I can offer you a great exchange rate…

In addition to their love of American culture, Norwegians are very proud of their Viking heritage. When I told a local about being cold in the water, he exclaimed “you must not be a Viking, then!” In fact, my second favorite store I went into was simply called “Viking,” which offered every kitschy piece of Viking paraphernalia one could imagine. By the way, when I return, one of you will be lucky enough to receive your very own Norwegian Viking hat, but I’m not saying who…

Though I didn’t like Norway quite as much as Iceland, a country with Vikings, obscure Americana, and hot girls can’t be bad.

First of all a note: internet on the ship is finally back up after being down for a whole week, so not only am I almost halfway across the globe from home, I also felt quite isolated with communications. So, now that it's up, I'll try to respond to all of your emails as soon as I can. For now, here are a couple of blog entries about my time in Norway! Enjoy.

I spent my last day in Norway wandering the streets of Bergen observing this European city. This entry will recount some of my observations from my day in DTB-Downtown Bergen.

First, I have to say that the Norwegian girls are incredible. Seriously, I have never in my life been around a country, or a city for that matter, with girls as good looking as the ones in Bergen. I don’t know what they put in the 8% milk here in Norway, but wow, they left me speechless.

When I managed to pry myself away from looking at the girls, I was constantly amused by the Norwegian fascination with American culture, the pinnacle of which occurred when I wandered into a shop that must be Norway’s version of Abercrombie. In the store – which was blasting Maroon 5 and Ludacris – were t-shirts with English sayings that I couldn’t help but wonder about. Probably my favorite was a 3/4 length shirt that boldly said “SOUTH COUNTY RHODE ISLAND” on it. What Rhode Islander has enough state pride (or county pride, for that matter) to wear a shirt proudly displaying that they are from the smallest state in the union? Fear not, Rhode Islanders, there are Norwegian teens reppin’ for your state (and if you’re lucky enough to be from southern Rhode Island, your county as well). My other favorite shirts were knock-off NBA team shirts, however, due to either copyright issues, or confusion with a sport that’s not soccer (football), the shirts all featured the city and nickname of one team, with the logo of a different team. The Phoenix Suns shirt, for instance, proudly displayed the name on top of a green and yellow Seattle Sonics logo…

I went to purchase an international phone card to call back to the country Norwegian’s pretend to call home, only to find that the store didn’t accept my foreign Visa. “Don’t worry,” the cashier said, “there’s an ATM across the street at McDonalds.” So I headed across the street into an absolutely gorgeous white wooden building – decidedly golden arch free – with just a small script “McDonald’s” above the door. I walk in to use the ATM, and notice a woman working the register. Despite her french-fry grease stained McD’s tanktop, she is gorgeous, and almost made me want to order the Kyelling McPita they offered, but I resisted the temptation to “act American” on this trip, and instead headed to the ATM. In Iceland the exchange rate is 6.45 Kroners to the dollar, which I must have confused with the Icelandic exchange rate of 65 Kroners to the dollar, because as I selected the amount of money to withdraw, thinking I was taking out about $15 US equivalent, I accidentally took out $150 US. Of course there’s no return option on the ATM when I realized I took out about ten-times too much, and my French-fry lady didn’t even notice that I’m a big roller with 1000 Kroners. So, I am left with about 700 Kroners, as the ship is about to sail away. If you’re planning a trip to Norway, I can offer you a great exchange rate…

In addition to their love of American culture, Norwegians are very proud of their Viking heritage. When I told a local about being cold in the water, he exclaimed “you must not be a Viking, then!” In fact, my second favorite store I went into was simply called “Viking,” which offered every kitschy piece of Viking paraphernalia one could imagine. By the way, when I return, one of you will be lucky enough to receive your very own Norwegian Viking hat, but I’m not saying who…

Though I didn’t like Norway quite as much as Iceland, a country with Vikings, obscure Americana, and hot girls can’t be bad.

As soon as the Norwegian customs officers cleared our ship, we headed to the train station to purchase tickets for our train ride to Voss, where we would spend the afternoon whitewater rafting. The train is a small commuter that only seats 100, and my group of friends numbered 20, so we didn’t want to take any chances. By 9 AM we purchased our tickets and had a few hours to kill before our 1 PM train took off, so we decided to explore the city of Bergen a bit.

The city, thanks in large part to its past as a major seaport, has what I consider to be a very traditional European feel. Small, colorful, wooden homes, ala Amsterdam, are situated along the various waterfronts in the city. It also features expansive public-space with parks, large fountains and ponds around the city center.

After a couple of hours of exploring, we stopped for a snack at a small coffee house. I ordered a cookie and milk; I asked if they had non-fat milk, but the woman looked at me confused. I then asked, “skim milk?” She responded in the affirmative and poured me a glass, which, when I tasted it, reminded me more of the little shots of cream in coffee shops or a strong half-and-half than it did milk. So I took my “cookie and cream” and sat down to eat my snack, which cost me the equivalent of $7 US. (Quick aside: for the same amount at Diddy, I could have had 18 cookies and 3 cartons of milk).

After refueling and chatting with my fellow rafters, we jumped on the commuter train to Voss. The rail line winds around landscape that alternates between dense forest and vast expanses of water, interspersed between tunnels built through the numerous mountains of the area.

We arrived in Voss and were greeted by our Kiwi rafting guide, who shuffled us into a big van and whisked us to company headquarters (i.e. a shack with rafts), where he gave us a pep-talk before turning us loose to get our rafting gear on. They outfitted us with a full body wetsuit, a wetsuit jacket to go above the first one, waterproof boots made of the same material, a helmet, and a big ol’ life jacket. I felt like a poor man’s water-resistant Batman in the getup. We then piled back into the vans and went to the riverbank where our rafting guides were waiting for us.

The weather, it should be noted was better than anyone could have hoped for. Our guide told us that it was the first nice day in Bergen (a world leader in rainfall, averaging 200 days of precipitation a year), since last summer. The skies were bright blue (true blue, even), while the water, a deep navy blue was still a frigid 38 degrees thanks to the typical Norweigan weather. It contrasted beautifully with the tall green trees that lined the river, and the plentiful white foam in sections of the rivers that contained rapids.

We jumped in our rafts – my raft made up of 4 S@S kids, a Scottish couple on “holiday,” and our drill sergeant guide. We practiced the various commands – left, right, forward, backwards, and my favorite “GET DOWN” where you squeeze your paddle underneath your elbow and wedge yourself as far down in the raft as you can. Once the guide got some confidence in us (or at least some feigned faith), we headed down to our first rapid where we had a swim test waiting for us. We had to get out of the raft, float down stream for 10 yards on our backs, and then once we hit the rapid, turn over on our stomach and swim as hard as we could against the current to reach the shoreline. Fortunately, all of us passed, and it was now time to get to the fun rapids.

The lull between rapids is made up alternately of veering in-between rocks and gathering up speed for when we came up to the drops, rapids, and whirlpools. The rafting is better than the best roller coaster because it features all of the excitement of a ride, but without the certainty of the track; our guide, if we began to slack, would remind us that if we didn’t pick up enough steam we could flip in the rapids, giving us a harsh swim to the side as our punishment.

We got to go through dozens of rapids – all successfully, I might add, as our raft didn’t tip over or have a single person fall out. We may not have been great rafters, but I think it goes without saying we were good at “GET DOWN.” Finally, as we reached the last half-mile or so of our rafting adventure, our guide told us we could get out of the raft and float downstream next to it. We slid out of the raft, laid on our backs and let the current whisk us away. The water was so cold, however, that our hands (the only part of our body not covered by the wetsuit) quickly turned blue if we left them submerged, so the scene was 4 S@S students floating on our backs, with just our hands out of the water dreading the times where our hands had to meet the water to steer ourselves downstream.

We went back, showered, and returned on the train to Bergen. We were back by about 8:30 PM, and I was asleep by 9, exhausted from a day filled with expensive cookies, a longing for 1% milk, a wetsuit so tight I don’t know how I got it off, and memories of my first time rafting the rapids.

As our ship prepares to head to Norway, I want to share with you a couple of stories that shed some light on what it means to be an Icelander. If I get a chance, I will share with you stories of my spelunking in Icelandic caves and other adventures in Reykjavik, but everything moves so quickly here that before I know it I will be in another country.

**********

Our jeep pulled up to a remote campsite nestled at the base of two huge volcanoes. Thanks to the geothermal activity below, hot springs warmed water that flowed down a small waterfall into a pond of crystal clear water below. We changed into our bathing suits (unfortunately, the many Europeans at the campsite took swimsuit to mean Speedo) and walked down a long series of wooden planks laid down above some marshy grass. We descended into the pond, which at the entrance was as cold as a Northern California beach. However, as we surged forward towards the warm water that entered at the front end, we felt underwater currents carrying streams of the magma-heated water our way. After a few shrieks from the cold, and some splashes to get acclimated, we settled down in front of the waterfall as the warm and cool water oscillated all around us – one moment too hot, the next too cold, but for the majority of time just right. Natural springs like this one become a social place to unwind for Icelanders – not unlike a pub in Britain, or a coffee shop in America – even in the dead of Winter, when their hair freezes while they soak their bodies in the warm water below.

This doesn’t surprise me, however, as I saw first hand how connected Icelanders feel to their natural environment and how the glaciers, lava fields and geysers are part of both their national and personal identities. As such, they painstakingly care for the environment that they feel lucky to call part of their country. Except for the cars that run on petrol, all of the other energy in the country is geothermal or hydroelectrically formed, creating a country that literally has no pollution. During a hike, our leader got out his water bottle, dipped it in a stream as it filled up with the water, and offered it to us. He told us that the water is as fresh, if not fresher than, our filtered tap water in the States. He was right – even right out a stream, it was not only healthy to drink; it was delicious.

Even more than their connection with nature, what struck me most about Iceland is their optimistic spirit in the face of what most of us would call difficult living conditions. It’s the most expensive in the world to live, with the worst levels of purchasing power parity on the globe. That, however, doesn’t stop thousands of Icelanders from heading out on Friday and Saturday night to party, despite beers that cost upward of $10 US per. In the dead of winter they receive only a couple of hours of sunlight per day. When I asked our Jeep driver Alf – yes, like the furry brown TV alien with the big schnoz – how Icelanders deal with hardly any light for months at a time, he responded “we turn on a light.” In Iceland many homes each year are destroyed due to the volcanic and plate-tectonic activity (they average 180 small earthquakes a DAY). How do Icelanders deal with the loss of homes? Their government takes 1% of each person’s taxes for a fund to give each unlucky family a completely rebuilt home.

Finally, as Iceland begins to fade away into the horizon of the sea, I’ll share a story that exemplifies the ultimate in the Icelander’s optimistic spirit. After our Icelandic Super Jeep made the turn from the “middle of nowhere” to just “nowhere,” we heard a large clank, followed by a couple smaller clanks, and then felt the jeep halt to a hard stop. “Don’t worry,” our driver Alf said, “we won’t be stuck long.” He climbs out of the jeep, only to reappear a few moments later his hands black from grease, holding the drive shaft of our car. “Looks like this fell off,” he says with a furtive grin. The Americans in the jeep start to think we may be out here in “Nowhere, Iceland” for quite a while. Someone even proposes ordering pizza, until I remind him that if they deliver us pizza we should probably ask for them to deliver us back to Reykjavik, as well. Within moments a large Toyota pick-up truck pulls up, and out steps Thor the mechanic, with the body of a human, but the face and hair of a 12th century Viking. He and Alf exchange Icelandic pleasantries while they screw the drive shaft (whatever that is…) back into place. Within minutes of the Viking mechanic’s arrival, Alf hops back in his super jeep – now back to full strength after it met its kryptonite – a loose drive shaft. He says to us, “You were worried huh? No reason to,” he tells us, “In Iceland, there’s always a way.”

You all know that I love words – especially big, descriptive ones – but to express what I saw today, I don’t believe words can do justice. I took an “Icelandic Super Jeep” (read: a van tricked out with 44” wheels, and other goodies) on an 11-hour tour to the barren center of Iceland. What I saw there was more amazing and awe inspiring than any nature I have ever seen before – it even puts Galapagos to shame (and that’s saying something)! After about a 60 KM drive on paved road, our super jeep took a sharp right turn from the path of civilization into a world that felt as untapped as the day the Vikings arrived. In the course of half of a day we would see waterfalls, valleys, ridges, geysers, glaciers, and tundra that can only be described as lunar. Here are some photos for you to see before I go into a little more detail on some of the experience that can be put into words.

Pinvellegar:


THE original geyser, after which all other geysers in the world are named (here’s one of your requests, Uncle Glenn):


Two waterfalls coming together just off “highway 1” the main road heading from Reykjavik:


An incredible valley we saw. The water running through the picture is part of what is referred to in Iceland as “the money river,” because it is dammed in multiple places providing the hydroelectric power that runs Iceland:


140m high waterfall. The guide made us follow directly in his footsteps on the hike out, because it is so high up, and so steep that one misstep would mean a fatal fall.


The valley surrounding the 140m high waterfall:


Just a few of the dozen waterfalls in this stunning vista:


Yes, this is still the same country – only about an hour’s drive removed from the previously pictured valley. Here we are on top of Mt. Helka, the highest volcano in Iceland:



More stories to come soon, including: bathing in a natural hot spring, our “Icelandic Super Jeep” meeting its kryptonite and breaking down in the middle of nowhere, and spelunking in the depths of Icelandic caves…stay tuned.

Hi, I’m in Iceland, and it smells like fish. Seriously, the moment I stepped off the ship, I caught a strong waft of Iceland’s economy. As we moved further away from the dock, though, the smell relented.

I figure before I start talking in too much detail about what I’m seeing, I should tell you all a bit about Iceland (allow me to bring my Geographer side out for a second). Iceland is about the size of the State of Kentucky, with the entire population being around that of Cincinnati (~250,000). Of that population, more than half live in the Capital, Reykjavik, which is where I will be spending four days. The rest of the island nation is untouched nature, with smaller towns located along the outer coast. Their entire economy revolves around fishing, as it has the least arable land of any country. The country is geographically isolated from Western Europe and because of this, it:
Is very genetically homogeneous,
Has kept its language – Icelandic – virtually the same for a millennium plus,
Is ridiculously expensive. It is the most costly place in the world to live
Also, because it is so far north, it experiences long periods of sun in the summer and hardly any in the winter.

Quick flashback: last night I experienced something I will likely never encounter again: a midnight sun. Since yesterday was the longest day of the year, and we are right outside of the Arctic Circle, we didn’t have “night” at “night,” last “night”; rather, we had a 2 hour “twilight” period where the sun briefly dipped below the horizon at about 12:30 AM, and then reappeared just a couple of hours later. It never got dark; it just stopped being sunny for about 100 minutes.

There will be lots more to come from Iceland, but for now I will share with you some photos from my morning Reykjavik city orientation where we drove around in a big bus – like we did in Ecuador! – seeing the sights. We got out of the bus twice to feel the cool Icelandic summer breeze and experience the two “gotta-see-Reykjavik” sights: the Hallgrimskirkja Church and the building that houses Icelands hydroelectric power, the latter of which offers beautiful 360 degree panoramic views of the city.


The church and my main man Leif Erickson


The church from the side


Airband statues outside of the hydroelectric tanks


This is Reykjavik


Panoramic

When I first started the blog I figured I’d get about 10 hits – 9 of which would be from my mom refreshing the page in hopes of an update. But, not only have you read it and commented on it, you’ve also made requests. So, allow me to provide a positive reinforcer to continue reading it by accommodating your #1 demand: photos of the boat and my room. Other requests such as photos of me doing a cannon-ball in our tiny pool, and a photoshoot of me modeling my GAP t-shirts will have to wait (sorry). Click on the thumbnail for a larger version.

More photos of the boat will be coming, but for now here’s a shot of the swanky middle of the boat. Behind the photo is the computer lab, and in the foreground is the library. Down below is the Purser’s Square where you take care of any business you might have (think of it as a much friendlier Murphy Hall where everyone is dressed in sailor attire):



The view as you walk into my room. I’m on the left, underneath the exquisite piece of art:



The view from the window:



Check out the view:




We’re currently about 500 nautical miles away from Iceland, and even closer than that to Greenland. Our ETA in Iceland is Thursday morning at 0700 (7 AM for those of you not in the military or on a boat). I’ll try to update the blog again upon arrival to share my first thoughts on the country that gave us Bjork, and give you my list of some of the traditional Icelandic food I will not be trying there.

I figure I’ve told hundreds of people about my Semester at Sea voyage, and every single person was excited about it – except one. Standing in line at security at SFO, I met Ron Finklestein – perhaps the only pessimist in Canada. He told me travel is a hassle, and “you just never know what’ll happen.” I shrugged him off, too excited about traveling to care. But, just as soothsayer Finklestein hinted, I – as well as my luggage – almost didn’t make it to the ship.

I flew into Montreal for a quick stopover before departing for Halifax, Nova Scotia, where I would embark on the ship. In Montreal I had exactly 45 minutes between the time my flight landed and the time my next flight would board. In that sliver of time, I needed to clear customs, pick up my luggage, drop off my luggage (again) check in (again), and go through security (again). I went to pick up my luggage but only one of my two checked bags came through. Time was ticking to get to my next flight, as I stood staring at the mouth of the conveyor belt, ready to pounce on my bag the second it got off. Finally, it was five minutes until boarding and I only had one bag. Frantically, I decided it was more important to make my flight than to get my bag, since if I missed this flight, I wouldn’t be able to board the ship in time.

I started a light jog, with one of my two bags, headed for the “Sortie” (exit, in French, as it was labeled in Francophone Quebec), only to find it diagonally across the entire baggage claim from me. I got to the sortie, ran up the steps (no time for an elevator), only to end up in the front of the terminal again. It’s now my time to board, and I am looking at a huge line to check my remaining bag. I run up to the man in the front of the line and explain my situation and ask if I could possibly go ahead of him. He gives me the “I speak French, not English, and have no idea what you’re saying” look, but the man behind him lets me go next. I check my bag, hoping it doesn’t meet the same fate as its cousin, and head for security. After passing security, I’m already ten minutes late for boarding. Not having time to put my laptop back in my backpack, I assume it in my right arm like a football, and begin a brisk walk. After I realize that I’m in a tunnel where, inexplicably, my gate is the last one, I start a full out sprint, protecting the laptop with one arm while using my left to hold my bouncing backpack in place. I come sprinting down a narrow hallway where Canadians come to a halt to let me pass – I do a courtesy slowdown (as if it makes it any safer), and then start my sprint up again. Finally I reach my gate, perspiration dripping from my brow, my face as red as a Canadian Maple Leaf, and board the flight just in time (for the flight attendant to announce the flight is delayed 15 minutes).

I get off the plane in Halifax tired, hungry, and expecting at least one, but hopefully two bags to meet me at the claim. To my dismay (but not complete surprise), neither of my bags comes off the flight to meet me. I happen to meet two girls on Semester at Sea, both of whom had their luggage lost by Air Canada as well. I go to the baggage claim to make a report, and the man in the maple-leaf-sweater-vest asks me if I am on Semester at Sea. I nod, confused as to how he knew; he informs me about 30 SAS students lost baggage that day. I tell him where my ship is docked, and that I need my luggage by 4 PM, or else I will be traveling to Iceland with only one shirt. He tells me not to get my hopes up.

I enter the ship the next morning at 8 AM, and speed through the check-in, since I didn’t have any bags to check. I board the ship, and am struck by how empty my cabin feels with barely more than a laptop, some toiletries and a pair of pants to sustain me for the voyage. I spend the day shuffling between calls to Air Canada, obsessive refreshing of the Air Canada baggage tracer website, and a run to the Halifax Mall where I bought seven non-descript color t-shirts at GAP. As I was gathering a nice collection of $9 shirts in various shades of blue and grey, the “sales associate” commented I was must be loading up on clothing because of the sale; I told him my tale of woe, and he informed me another SASer had just been in doing the same thing I was doing.

I head back to the ship by the 3PM boarding deadline, resigned to the fact I will be wearing only different hues of GAP shirts until Iceland. At 3:45, only a few minutes before the ship is to take off for the seas, a voice comes over the loudspeaker: “will the following students please come to the union to claim luggage.” I wait, with the anticipation of a team on selection Sunday hoping to hear their name announced for the NCAA tournament. The first named announced is mine, and by the time he finishes “Bu,” I am out the door. To my delight, not one, but both of my pieces of luggage were waiting for me, changing my predicament from “what color GAP shirt will I wear today,” to “where am I going to put the 7 extra GAP shirts in my cabin?”

I throw my bags in my room, and head out to the seventh deck to watch the ship pull away from shore, as a bagpiper plays, and waving families on shore slowly fade into the Halifax skyline.
Sure, travel can be a hassle, but I made it, Ron Finklestein, and so did my bags.

Here are some photos from our ship departing Halifax:

Keep checking in with my blog where I will share stories and photos of my Summer at sea!