Now!HereColumbia’s World Travel Journal

TravelsFall 2014

Public displays of affection have never bothered me much—if they had,

Paris would have been a minefield of anxiety. Streets embrace one another at angles reminiscent of limbs over limbs; the land-dweller’s romance with the Seine is one of dangling feet, good company, and cheap wine; and of course, there are the couples. Couples every-where, holding hands, kissing mildly on the cheek, giving decidedly-less-mild kisses on the mouth, made of flesh, made of marble—all drawn to this one city by the siren-call of idealistic expectations.I like to call myself a practical roman-tic, but what I really am is a dreamer who is too afraid to be hurt by her own imagination. The higher expectations, the harder the fall, as I have learned in many a context; and though I am entranced by the idea of wandering spontaneously but meaningfully, neither attached nor dismissive of any culture or place, my Paris is burdened by the necessity to incite wonder. From afar, it seems as if Paris will never fall short: “Midnight in Paris” and “Ame-lie” paint moving portraits of whimsy and magic, making us believe that on every cobbled street corner, there is a free-spirited, good-hearted French girl lingering, only for a moment, with us in

mind; French pastries enthrall us with their colors and scents, and we happily subject ourselves to waistline torture as a result; Paris landmarks decorate our walls and bookshelves, even if we have never been to the site ourselves; and of course, romance seemingly blossoms on every park bench, in every subway car, in every lonely or broken heart, upon the indentations made by lovers come be-fore. Yet the higher the expectations, the harder the fall, and clearly, my expecta-tions of my Parisian summer were mo-mentous, despite having many reasons to have lowered them: I fancy myself a writer, yet I do not write regularly or well enough to rightly call myself one in this city of artists; I was in the Paris area to work as an au pair, a job more unglamorous (but more fulfilling) than the name implies; and most importantly, all my exploration of a city with a high proof of personal interactions was to be completely on my own.The prospect of complete liberation from familial bickering over which museum to skip or what to eat for lunch made travelling alone attractive enough, but the real reason I was willing to go to France, without truly knowing the family for whom I was working, without even truly knowing myself outside of the

The Newly Lost and Always Found Generation

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18 Photo by: Lan Yao SIPA ‘15

simple contents of a short biographical blurb, was because I knew that I would never be as free or independent as I was in that summer. It is a thought that could scare many into staying behind, but I have always been wilder than I have given myself credit for. To be alone physically and mentally, but to be surrounded by love from all sides—I thrived off of the Skypes and Facebook messages of my parents and friends—are the perfect conditions for walking on the wild side of wanderlust; just safe enough as the door to the world slowly opens. I was living the life of an in-trovert and developing the mind of an extrovert as I shopped at the farmer’s market, ordered from coffee baristas, wrote epics to my best friend back in

the States, and observed the messy beauty of those interacting around me. Somehow, the former introvert found that people were indispensible to her happiness; and she never felt so trans-formed as she sought to find herself, beneath her awkwardness and shy-ness, as she lived a double life.Parisian life, lived solely on the week-ends with the money I made during the week, became a shiny collage of moments alone, moments that could never be lonely because of the dreams that followed them. Coffee in a hipster shop on the rue de Babylone, finally scribbling every plot idea I ever have had. A hot blue-sky day on the grass in front of the Sacré-Coeur, reading the exact same book my best friend was

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18

reading 6,000 miles away. Two Irish street musicians, tousled-haired and delightfully spirited, playing music on the steps back down into the city (I gave them a coin for the awe I felt, and the 20 minutes I spent watching them). Hours upon hours in the gardens, most particularly Luxembourg, eavesdrop-ping on conversations, concocting conversations around those stories, and imagining with all my might the royals and nobles who once frequented the idyll, and what their stories would have been. Macarons upon macarons, colored confections that cost too much and went down too quick, but were jew-els as unique as every Parisian neigh-borhood. Notre-Dame, and the powers of mind its builders possessed, and so close by, Heloise and Abelard’s doomed house of love. Strolling through the Marais, feeling almost ancient in the shadow of the grey buildings and the somber legacy, and having my first authentic falafel experience (I was not disappointed). Paris in the rain, cold and dreary, but a mile of pretty, creamy buildings and not a soul to see, as local as I ever could become with a baguette in arm and impractical heels on my

feet. And at the end of each nine hour day, the return back to the suburbs, my head against the window as I won-dered what other dreams would come true—and with whom.Paris is the most romantic city in the world, not because it invites lovers into its embrace, but because it makes all its visitors become them. This trip had to be taken alone in order for me to understand what it was like to be alone but happy; a feeling I have already surrendered to the bustle and drama of college life. Yet it lingers, just as those characters do on the corner, just as the two entwined lovers do in Rodin’s The Kiss, always beckoning me back to balance, always tempting me towards a fall. I fell in love neither with another nor with myself this summer; but I feel both are possible now. Separation from and connection to others were both felt in equal measure, introverted-ness and extrovertedness fought and made up with one another inside my head; and Paris merged each pair, just as it draws its lovers together, just as it meets all contradictory and over-whelming expectations. It certainly met mine.*

by Anonymous

Photos by: Lan Yao SIPA ‘15

On rainy days in Spoleto, I am sad-dened by very little. It is the per-fect weather for a much needed

nap during siesta, and keeps this hilltop town cool in what has been a relatively warm summer elsewhere, while I walk to school each morning. (This is normally when I often find myself rejoicing at the realization that the daily “Jan Jaunt,” or creative writing exercise turned excessively difficult hike, would be canceled due to inclement conditions, and that my legs would get some rest). Usually, the only vaguely upsetting thought I have on such days is a small inkling which nudges at the back of my mind: I forgot to bring in my laundry. Yes, laundry. Twice now, I have forgot-ten to bring in my almost dry clothes

before these summer showers. It is not so bad, as I find doing laundry and other various types of cleaning very therapeutic and relaxing. However, it has lead me to the conclusion that the smell of hand washed, sun dried cloth-ing is what I will miss most about this town. I will not mourn my parting from these steeply sloping hills, aching calves every evening, pasta courses for both lunch and dinner, or waking up to slugs in my room. Nor will I lament the loss of an 11:00pm curfew, the escape from the no drinking policy, the end of three weeks spent in the pocket of the same 43 people, or the awkwardness of calling adults that were once my high school teachers by their first names – of being practically required to.

Laundry

I will, however, cry out in anguish when I return home, unpack my suitcase, and proceed to do my first load of laundry by machine. I will wash away memories of the chilly mornings when I wrapped myself in my sweatshirt one too many times and had to figure out how I’d be able to ring out a garment so thick after washing it in the convent sink.Gone will be the stains from botched too-early-to-function attempts at putting jelly on my breakfast rolls, affection-ately called nunbuns, lost forever as the washer has more of an effect than my 15 minutes of rigorous scrubbing. My college shirt will never again grace the laundry line outside my room, nestled between a canopy of grapevines and a small garden of wildflowers – an ode to my independence, my maturity, a proud proclamation that I can do my own laundry without the help of a machine. These fresh scented shirts that dry in the afternoon breeze are the simplest, loudest evidence of this fact. I will purge the story of my journeys from my socks: walking to the Mercato each afternoon for class before being pointed in another direction; early morning “Nance Prances” to the market evenings spent skipping under a blanket of stars to the next open Gelateria, the record being five in one night; excur-sions in the packed streets of Florence; Palio races with my contrada; late night scavenger hunts around Spoleto, trying to avoid locals assuming the wild goose chase was a drinking game; and magi-cal mystery tours around town in the summer monsoons, so uncharacteristic

of this place. The San Benedetto sand might still re-fuse to leave the tight knit. I will scrub the forced oppression from my dresses, left with nothing but advice for future travels: cover your shoulders and knees when you visit a church to avoid the cloak of shame. The residual nervous-ness felt before master classes will also be washed away, the long flowing fabric never again acting to shield my shaking limbs from view. I will treat the dots of acrylic paint and charcoal that grace my jeans, the result of oo much time spent with the creative arts students. I do not worry, for even the lingering streaks of mud and dirt on the knees of my favourite pants from evening spent in the park, upbeat songs from Rio 2 in Italian soon becoming the soundtrack for my valiant attempts to remain a child here forever, or maybe to grow up too fast, will come out after a couple of cycles. And when my laundry is done, every moment washed from each and every shirt, skirt, dress, sock, and sweater, I will truly know what it is to ache for something – everything. Though, all it will take is the sweet smell of lavender cedar detergent that has been dried in the sun to bring it all back. These expe-riences will never truly be forgotten, for this place, this world, will be forever at the beck and call of my sensory memory. After that first load is finished, it will be going straight back in another suitcase, as these clothes will have another plane ride, another adventure, to embark upon.*by India Madisetti, CC’18

Photo by: Lan Yao SIPA ‘15

I understand that offsetting flight emissions can never be a global solu-tion to the problem of high green-

house gas emissions from air travel. But, on the other hand, a flight from Vi-enna to New York and back causes more than 4 tons of carbon dioxide equiva-lents (www.atmoasfair.de), far beyond a tolerable per capita annual emission. If we want to enact change, we must begin speaking seriously about climate justice and responsibility. I did my part by giv-ing low-carbon travel a try.In Europe, I usually do all my travel on bicycle and train. But, as I prepared to travel to Columbia, I was faced with the quesiont of how to cross the Atlantic and arrive in America in a sustainable way. My best possible option was the following:I took a train from Vienna to Antwerp. I left Vienna at 7 a.m and I arrived in Antwerp at 8:30 p.m. the same day. I had to change trains in Frankfort and Brussels. In Antwerp I spent the night taking advantage of free low emission lodging via “couchsurfing”.

On October 22nd I went on board of the cargo ship “Independent Voyager”. I had booked my ticket at Frachtschiffreisen Kapitän Zylmann, a German Company specialized in facilitating passenger tickets on cargo ships anywhere in the world. Usually you pay around 120 dollars per day for your well equipped cabin and full pension (three meals plus afternoon coffee on request). The advantage of cargo ship travel is that as an additional passenger to a freight of over one hundred thousand tons of cargo you cause almost no additional amount of greenhouse gas. Various calculations result in a carbon footprint of about 5 to 20 grams of CO2-e per passenger and kilometer, compared to between 200 and 600 CO2- -e when taking a seat in an airplane.It was a rainy day when I arrived on my folding bike (which I can take with me in a bag as a piece of luggage in any ex-press train) in the Harbor of Antwerp. I still had to cycle several kilometers until I found peer number 246. After a short inspection of my passport and ticket, I

Traveling Light

A low-carbon

journey from Vienna to New York

received strict orders to walk with my bike along the yellow line to the ship in order to avoid placing myself in danger under the machines and cranes which were loading the containers on the ship.I had to climb up a rather narrow and steep stairway; a crew member helped me to carry the folded bicycle plus the two bicycle bags. On the open deck we had to walk about thirty meters till we arrived at the ship’s office. “Welcome on board!” said the gateman who belongs to the crew. I should leave my bicycle in the storage room where the thick ropes are stored; the other crew member will lead me to my cabin on third upper deck; din-ner is at 5:30 in the “officers’ mess”. That’s all, for the moment.The cabin was fine, a bed, a sofa, a closet, a table, a TV screen (although there is no TV on the open sea but you may play videos), a clean shower and toilet. This would be my home for the next two weeks.At 5:30 in the officers’ mess I met the three other passengers, a Swiss couple and a Ger-man. The second officer who was sitting in front of me at the table explained us that late in the night the ship will leave the port. I

Photo by: Gino Caspari SIPA

Photos by: Lan Yao SIPA ‘15

went to sleep early, as I was tired. The next morning after breakfast, I stepped up to the bridge which is situated above the fifth upper deck. There I met the Captain for the first time, a very friend-ly Romanian. He was quite interested in talking to us passengers and asking what we are doing. He showed me the radar screens and many other appa-ratus in the wide room of the bridge. The captain was also interested in my work as a physician and researcher; we talked a lot these days and became friends.As I am a doctor, the captain ordered the second officer to show me the medi-cal emergency room. It is well equipped with medicaments, oxygen, EKG, and defibrillator, etc. A special wireless telephone hotline connects the room with a doctor in Europe specialized in sea medicine and emergencies. The two weeks on board were not bor-ing at all. And one has to know: it is not a lost time. You can read and write in your cabin, what I did a lot, and chat with officers and crew.After 3 days we arrived in Liverpool, where many containers were disem-barked and others loaded. Entering and leaving the port of Liverpool is only possible during high tide.After leaving Liverpool we spent ten days on the open sea. The weather was not the best, sometimes there was fog, and the officer explained me how to distinguish clouds from other objects or boats on the radar. We had two heavy storms, one two days, the other one eight days after leaving Liverpool. I fought against nausea chewing “travel-gums”. But even winter storms have an end, and I enjoyed it so much when the sun finally came out. It was an overwhelm-ing feeling when watching sunset in the open sea.In one moment, our route was changed a little towards the south because of ra-dar information about existing icebergs east of Newfoundland.On the fourth of November in the early

morning we finally arrived in the port of Chester, 20 miles south of Philadel-phia. At the port I unfolded my bicycle and pedaled towards Philadelphia. It was short after nine in the morning, a warm autumn day.There was not too much traffic on the old scenic road. Pushed by a friendly tailwind I rapidly approached Philadel-phia. What a feeling; I had arrived in America. I enjoyed the colored leaves of the trees that I had not seen for so many days.I spent the afternoon and evening in Philadelphia before continuing to Princeton the next day. This time it was not so easy to find, since I did not have a GPS. Sometimes it was difficult to find people to ask. And there were almost no road signs that indicate be-ginning and end of a town and then the number of kilometers to the next town like I was used to seeing in Europe. In Princeton, I bought a road map in a bookshop in front of the old Univer-sity where Einstein had taught. After spending a nice evening and a night in Princeton I awoke to heavy rainfall. Nevertheless, I went on cycling. A short stop in the only grocery store and bar on the way helped me to warm up a little bit. At noon, I arrived in Plain-ville. It was still raining cats and dogs. So I decided to ask for the train station. At the romantic old railway station of Plainville, a friendly woman informed me about the next train to New York. I bought a ticket, only waited for about forty minutes, changed my wet clothes, and then got on the commuter train. Arriving at Penn station after about an hour, again I unfolded my bicycle and continued to Brooklyn where I was already expected.If you ask me if I would do a cargo ship travel again, I say: Of course! I have already booked my journey back home: Eleven days on sea from Wilmington, N.C. back to Antwerp.*

by Dr. Klaus Renolder

ith as much broken English as she could manage, Amartaivan, like a

daily alarm clock, would quiver with excitement. "Tomorrow...we to go

Mother Tree." I smiled and nodded, but I wouldn't understand until the next

day as she coaxed me onto a question-able bus for a curious adventure. As we

clattered along, I watched the land-scape change from luscious greenery, to dusty, barren wasteland. I hobbled out of the vehicle and was given matches, milk, and birdseed. It was when I saw

the first scarf that I began to under-stand what I was walking into. More

scarves followed. The smells of vodka, food, sour milk, and incense burned my

nose. I glanced around and watched people scatter offerings, identical to the

items given to me. People lined up to pray. This was Mother Tree: the holiest of Mongolian sanctuaries. I remember a few of my Christian friends' discom-fort. One of them, Andrea, even whis-pered, "Katie, they're praying to false

idols." I cringed, but kept walking. I decided I had nothing to be afraid of. Was I at ease? Not ENTIRELY, but I

learned that, though my religion may differ completely, it is important to

embrace all peoples' differences. I feel strongly about my spiritual beliefs,

but at the same time I cannot deny the importance that the beliefs of others

hold for them. Mother Tree may have presented a religious dilemma for some

individuals of different faiths, but for me, it was a wonderful and insightful

learning opportunity.*

Mother TreeW

by Katie Homa CC’17

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18

Photo by:Dr. Klaus Renoldner

I was hesitant to travel to Leh, the largest town in Ladakh, with my cousin. She had warned me that

there would be some amount of rough-ing it--living in camps and other such ordeals that I wasn’t used to. After some prodding, I promised that I’d go with her, but on the condition that I would leave after a week. My cousin and the rest of the party were there for two.On the plane my cousin woke me up to a spectacular sight. Endless rows of snow clad mountains jutted out of the sky, until finally giving way to our destination--the valley of Leh. As soon as we landed, we had trouble breath-ing. Leh is located at an average eleva-tion of about 3500 metres and altitude sickness is common. We spent the day

in bed, at our comfortable hotel, Tsang-to Villa. I hoped that I wouldn’t fall sick--I had heard horror stories, but the human body adapts and the next day we were up and about.Even though we were only a few blocks

away from downtown, Leh was such a change from the hustle bustle of

our city lives. Where is the action? we asked. Luckily, we knew some locals

in Leh and they introduced us to other travelers from France, Israel and sur-

prisingly a few people we knew from Delhi. The most popular hangout place

was a small rock climbing ‘café’ called the ‘Boulder Café’, run by a friend. We ate most of our meals at ‘Bon Appetit’,

a quaint restaurant. On my cousin’s birthday we found a beautiful moonlit patch of green by the Indus River and

Face to Face with the Himalayas

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18

hung out to celebrate. An amazing experience for us, but just a normal

weekend for the locals.We spent our time in Leh exploring Ti-betan Buddhist monasteries - the must

see ones are the Hemis Monastery and the red and white Thikse Mon-

astery. The Thikse Monastery begins at a foothill and as we climbed up we

discovered smaller temples and prayer rooms. The monastery also includes an active nunnery. After paying our

respects, we swam in the river and ad-mired the beautiful color palette of the

landscape. Whether it was the kind-ness of our hosts, the strong, sweet tea or the mountain air, over the course of the week I felt like a better person and

strangely more in tune with myself.In Nubra Valley (our next location),

we hired a car and drove through the highest motor-able pass in the world,

Khardung La. At the top, we were face to face with the Himalayas.

Away from town, closer to the In-dian army base, the mountains were

imposing and defiant. The brown river camouflaged perfectly with the sand. I felt small driving through the vast

expanse of land, the peaks of Pakistan in the distance. We stopped at a small

Aryan village, Turtuk. The village smelled like apricots and walking up the stone steps was like entering the

shire from Lord of the Rings. And the village housed some of the most beauti-

ful people I’ve ever seen in my life.On our way back from the village, we saw two soldiers strolling around the army camp. Their slow, leisurely pace looked

bizarre against the harsh, eerie land-scape.We ended our trip with a visit

to Tsomoriri, a glacial lake. We stayed at Nomadic Life. Camps in basic, but comfortable tents. At night the mul-

titude of stars reflected on to the lake and in the light the lake mimicked the colors of the clouds: orange and brown during sunset, dark blue when cloudy,

and a glistening cyan when the sky was clear. I didn’t go home early, but

stayed the whole two weeks.*by Tara Khandelwal CC’18

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18

Photo by:Jasmine Weber CC’18

Photo by: Dan Chun CC’16

Photo by: E. Staurt Faith CC’18

There are treasures that tell of man’s infinite desire and his endless greed.They are scattered about the earth in crevices, and one rests in the heartland

of Russia.

Treasures commemorated in stone.On the hill by the white walls of the Kazan kremlin a small statue of Zilant is

perched.The winged serpent is cast cool bronze aged gray by time, and laureled with

a regal crown of gold.It is said this wyvern guards a great secret.One hidden in the belly blue heart of Kazan.

Drowned in the aqueous abode of legend and lore that is the Kaban Lake.Today, the plaza girdling the Tatar theater shrieks with frosty wind

in the doldrums of January.The snow is thick, impenetrable ice lies below, creaking

and groaning under cautious footsteps.The mystery of the lake lies dormant, cackling, echoing through the air.

Myth says that Zilant rests in the deep.That she is curled about empress Suyumbike’s gold.

She circles the empress’s riches, coiled in spirals until there is no distinction between silver and scale.

Suyumbike and the khans tossed jewels and chalices down into the lake’s watery maw.

Treasures thrown to the wind as enemies approached.

Many have searched the waters, quested in the lake bottom for what may not be there.

And yet no one has ever found the treasure and no one has reached Zilant.

Kabana poem by Ainsley Katz CC’18

Photo by: Dan Chun CC’16

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