I would like to start off by saying that Glasgow is neither the biggest nor the smallest city in the world, and any normal person with a sense of direction could get the hang of it pretty quickly. Sadly, (pathetically, really) I am not one of those people.
As part of International Student Orientation Week, I forked over ten pounds and signed myself up for a tour of Inveraray Town and Castle, scheduled for this morning. Instead, still being completely disoriented after a week here, I found myself in the middle of City Centre on a drizzly early morning. (You can look up what I missed out on; I can't bear it.)
Last night, after getting needlessly lost for an hour going to a flat viewing, I attended a social event for international, study abroad, and Erasmus students. I met up with my Spanish friend Belen, with whom I am currently hosteling, and made some new friends from Germany, France, Brazil, and Spain. What amazed me is that you could pretty much walk up to anyone there and find that they spoke near perfect English. Now, they are studying in Scotland, so you might think I shouldn't be so surprised, but there are plenty of people in the States who don't speak a word of English. Everyone I talked to explained that English is really important if you want to get ahead career-wise, and most of them had been learning it since primary school.
I am truly thankful that I am fluent in what is becoming a common language, and that I am also fluent in another, so I don't feel so terribly uneducated. (Really makes me hurt for those French classes I never took, though.) As for my native tongue, ever since I started hanging out with Belen and her fellow Spaniard Laura, I have been forced to speak/ text/ email in nothing but Spanish, so no one back home needs to worry that I'll forget it anytime soon. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in our conversations that when I turn my head and hear a Scottish accent, I'm almost taken aback and remember where I am.
Yesterday I had lunch with Belen at an Italian restaurant, where they were playing Gloria Estefan, and I was served by an Asian waitress. In my first three days or so here, I made friends with people from Nigeria, Greece, and Italy. I am currently at a hostel, so I need not go on. The point is that even though the United States, Miami in particular, is so culturally diverse, I have personally experienced more here in one week than in twenty four years back home. Of course, being an international student puts one in a great position to actually interact with people from all over the world, not just pass them on the street.
Not to get too "who am I? where do I belong?" but I do get curious about the way I'm perceived. When I speak English, I am sure my accent is American, but a lot of people look at me and think I am Spanish, including a Spanish waiter who went so far as to pinpoint the city I looked like I was from. A German boy I was talking to had never heard the term Hispanic, which I don't like that much, but to call myself Latina sounds too much like I'm JLo or something.
Giovanna, an Italian girl, told me that it's easy to point out the Americans, by their "American in Europe look." When I told her that was embarrassing, she assured me that there was also a "European in America" look which, when I pictured it, made me laugh.
I met a Chinese girl who, while making asking me for directions, told me out of nowhere I was beautiful. When I returned the compliment, she told me that I was beautiful and she was ugly, which kind of bummed me out. At orientation a French girl named Helenn was fascinated by me: the fact that I was from Miami ("So cool!"), that I was doing an environmental program ("Wow! Even cooler!"), and that I was drinking red wine ("You're the coolest girl in the UK!").
I guess as long as I'm the coolest girl in the UK, I don't really need to know where I'm going, or where I look like I came from.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
I Hear Bagpipes from My Window
No, really... I swear! I don't know what's going on outside, but I am not planning on following the intermittent sound of bagpipes in the distance. Why not? Because once is enough for getting lost in a day.
As a young woman traveling alone, my main priority above all else is to be safe. Yesterday that meant being too jet lagged and afraid to step outside the building. I did not like that feeling at all, so I resolved to get some much needed sleep, wake up early and force myself to go anywhere at all, as long as it was outside. It was not unlike tugging on a resistant little dog's leash, but I did it. (Okay, it was really more like me telling myself not to be a p****, but I thought the simile was a bit nicer.)
I made my way to the Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum because it was free, because I was dying to see it, and because Google Maps said it was a minute's walk away. (Brave girl!) It didn't take long to realize that I was in a really good part of town, and there was nothing at all to fear. Just when I thought I had missed a turn, I saw the beginning of a large building so beautiful and with such a strong, graceful presence that it could only house great works of art. My heart was doing cartwheels in my chest; it was all I could do to stop myself from crossing the street full of cars to get to it.
I stumbled right into the featured exhibition, Glasgow Boys, about some of the city's most influential artists and their work at the turn of the twentieth century. Each piece really was more beautiful than the one before, and I was delighted to find that I completely identified with the aesthetic. It made me so incredibly happy to be here, that all the stress of flat hunting, not really knowing where I am, and all that other nonsense just washed away. I am so lucky to be right on the little piece of earth that I want to be on. That is, somewhere I can see Sir John Lavery's painting of Anna Pavlova, and literally have my breath taken away.
I had my first meal here at the museum's cafe': a small pasta salad and some organic pear flavored biscuits dipped in dark chocolate that were so good I wish I could buy a crate and send some to everyone I know. (My sister will just be happy to know I ate.)
Buzzing from my successful trip, I wandered into Kelvingrove Park. All I knew of it before was that sometimes, when it gets dark, some people can get a little stabby, as people sometimes do. Walking around the kempt park with the joggers, the tourists, the families, couples, and dog walkers, it was very hard to imagine. Still, this knowledge prevented me from going into the slightly darkened pathways that I was really curious about, and made me curse being a small young woman.
On my alternate route, I found the mini skate park and relished in the fact that I can just sit and watch kids skate and bike without having to be someone's parent so as not to look creepy. Once I had my fill of smoking teenagers with tattoos on their necks, and the children who were much more talented than they were, I made my way back, but not without getting pretty lost first. Still, it was all worth it to find myself in a very posh neighborhood, getting passed by a small, slightly gruff, Scottish man in full-on traditional highland dress. I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen everyday, but it could only happen to me here.
As a young woman traveling alone, my main priority above all else is to be safe. Yesterday that meant being too jet lagged and afraid to step outside the building. I did not like that feeling at all, so I resolved to get some much needed sleep, wake up early and force myself to go anywhere at all, as long as it was outside. It was not unlike tugging on a resistant little dog's leash, but I did it. (Okay, it was really more like me telling myself not to be a p****, but I thought the simile was a bit nicer.)
I made my way to the Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum because it was free, because I was dying to see it, and because Google Maps said it was a minute's walk away. (Brave girl!) It didn't take long to realize that I was in a really good part of town, and there was nothing at all to fear. Just when I thought I had missed a turn, I saw the beginning of a large building so beautiful and with such a strong, graceful presence that it could only house great works of art. My heart was doing cartwheels in my chest; it was all I could do to stop myself from crossing the street full of cars to get to it.
I stumbled right into the featured exhibition, Glasgow Boys, about some of the city's most influential artists and their work at the turn of the twentieth century. Each piece really was more beautiful than the one before, and I was delighted to find that I completely identified with the aesthetic. It made me so incredibly happy to be here, that all the stress of flat hunting, not really knowing where I am, and all that other nonsense just washed away. I am so lucky to be right on the little piece of earth that I want to be on. That is, somewhere I can see Sir John Lavery's painting of Anna Pavlova, and literally have my breath taken away.
I had my first meal here at the museum's cafe': a small pasta salad and some organic pear flavored biscuits dipped in dark chocolate that were so good I wish I could buy a crate and send some to everyone I know. (My sister will just be happy to know I ate.)
Buzzing from my successful trip, I wandered into Kelvingrove Park. All I knew of it before was that sometimes, when it gets dark, some people can get a little stabby, as people sometimes do. Walking around the kempt park with the joggers, the tourists, the families, couples, and dog walkers, it was very hard to imagine. Still, this knowledge prevented me from going into the slightly darkened pathways that I was really curious about, and made me curse being a small young woman.
On my alternate route, I found the mini skate park and relished in the fact that I can just sit and watch kids skate and bike without having to be someone's parent so as not to look creepy. Once I had my fill of smoking teenagers with tattoos on their necks, and the children who were much more talented than they were, I made my way back, but not without getting pretty lost first. Still, it was all worth it to find myself in a very posh neighborhood, getting passed by a small, slightly gruff, Scottish man in full-on traditional highland dress. I'm willing to bet that doesn't happen everyday, but it could only happen to me here.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Difference A Day Makes
There are no more weeks, only days. The thought struck me immediately as I awoke this morning, and yet I still can not fully process that I will be in Scotland very, very soon. As usual, crucial details have been left to the last screeching second, but I don't think any amount of preparation would make me feel as if everything is taken care of.
I sent about twenty responses to Gumtree ads for flats today, and have received exactly zero responses. Meanwhile, the ad I put up last night has almost a hundred page views, but the only feedback I've gotten are from males I probably don't want to live with. I guess that's what happens when one of the photos you put up is a (quite modest, really) bathing suit shot. Truthfully of all my recent pictures, I found it difficult to find any where I wasn't in a swimsuit. That alone makes this summer one for the books. By my calculation, I have spent more time at the beach or in my pool than any other summer in my entire life— and I have the Coppertone girl tan lines to prove it.
Some of my more significant sun days were spent in La Habana just a few weeks ago. I won't get into all the details of my trip, but it was very important to me. Despite my reservations, I am completely grateful for the experience. I went with my dad and sister, which is rare in itself, since it's usually my mom who jets off with us (usually to her home country of Ecuador) while daddy holds down the fort. The vacation was wonderful, but I really wanted to have fun for my dad. The whole purpose of the trip was for me to connect with his family, whom I had never met, and his roots which are, of course, also mine.
My dad, who has been quietly melancholy about my nearing departure, was only concerned with us having a great time, more than enjoying himself, and even more than sharing his time (and the many gifts we all lugged over) with his remaining family members in Cuba.
One night, surrounded by oscillating fans at all speeds, we got to talking about how he left his home, how it all happened so quickly, and the life he may have never had if this hadn't happened. I'd drawn the parallels before from both my parents, and am always left marveling at how a life unfolds, and how beautiful it looks in retrospect. I am optimistic about what the future holds, but my father couldn't get past how stressful life has become, and how he is still a simple person at heart, longing for a simple life. It hurts to leave him this way.
The circumstances of my parents' moves and my own are very different, except for the fact that where we go and what we do will change our lives entirely as we know them.
So, six days to go and am I prepared for take off? Not entirely. But there is a part of me that has been ready and waiting.
I sent about twenty responses to Gumtree ads for flats today, and have received exactly zero responses. Meanwhile, the ad I put up last night has almost a hundred page views, but the only feedback I've gotten are from males I probably don't want to live with. I guess that's what happens when one of the photos you put up is a (quite modest, really) bathing suit shot. Truthfully of all my recent pictures, I found it difficult to find any where I wasn't in a swimsuit. That alone makes this summer one for the books. By my calculation, I have spent more time at the beach or in my pool than any other summer in my entire life— and I have the Coppertone girl tan lines to prove it.
Some of my more significant sun days were spent in La Habana just a few weeks ago. I won't get into all the details of my trip, but it was very important to me. Despite my reservations, I am completely grateful for the experience. I went with my dad and sister, which is rare in itself, since it's usually my mom who jets off with us (usually to her home country of Ecuador) while daddy holds down the fort. The vacation was wonderful, but I really wanted to have fun for my dad. The whole purpose of the trip was for me to connect with his family, whom I had never met, and his roots which are, of course, also mine.
My dad, who has been quietly melancholy about my nearing departure, was only concerned with us having a great time, more than enjoying himself, and even more than sharing his time (and the many gifts we all lugged over) with his remaining family members in Cuba.
One night, surrounded by oscillating fans at all speeds, we got to talking about how he left his home, how it all happened so quickly, and the life he may have never had if this hadn't happened. I'd drawn the parallels before from both my parents, and am always left marveling at how a life unfolds, and how beautiful it looks in retrospect. I am optimistic about what the future holds, but my father couldn't get past how stressful life has become, and how he is still a simple person at heart, longing for a simple life. It hurts to leave him this way.
The circumstances of my parents' moves and my own are very different, except for the fact that where we go and what we do will change our lives entirely as we know them.
So, six days to go and am I prepared for take off? Not entirely. But there is a part of me that has been ready and waiting.
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