I Want

Okay guys, let's be real here. I suck. At least at blogging. Can I make a semi-incoherent excuse for it? Okay, here goes.

About two weeks back my roommate Ashley and I were talking, as we're like to do when we actually see each other and she isn't busy studying every bone and muscle in the human body. Anyway, the conversation shifted to priorities. Time management. It may have been inspired by the fact that I make lists of everything and write down what I'm going to do every hour of every day days in advance. Anyway, I was frazzled with everything that, well, needed doing. Ashley looked at me and said something very wise:

"My number one goal is to be the best Occupational Therapy student. The best. Everything else is secondary."

And she probably is the best. I judge this by how hard she works and how many words she says (and sings) at me that I don't understand. But hearing this made me pause. In the hustle and bustle of coming back and rearranging my life and getting back into shape, I had no goal. Actually, my goals had been too weak. To not do badly, to not underperform, to not dissapoint. I think I've lost sight, some drive, because for a few days there, I had no idea what I wanted anymore.

Here's what I want.

I want to write. I want to delve deep into our country's politics and culture and fears and tendencies, and I want to contribute to the field I love to study so much. I know I'm in the right major because I get excited about my papers. EXCITED. Last weekend I wrote a short paper-- five pages-- about the conservative political movement and Iceland's economic collapse. And I thought of nothing else. I want to write the best papers in the class and contribute to every discussion.

I want to finish this stupid macroeconomics problem set. There are some days I question how my father managed to brainwash me into actually wanting to take this class. On the plus side, I actually understand the  sub-prime mortgage crisis now, about 3 years too late. Yeah, so this want is short term. I am just SICK of drawing supply and demand curves. I GET IT, EQUILIBRIUM BLAH BLAH BLAH OKAY?

I want to find my confidence in crew. I want to be able to approach an erg like I did the starting block for swimming and not feel defeated before I even sit down.

And...I want to get what I want. Kind of like the girl that turned into a blueberry in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Except, if I don't get it, I'll just work harder. And maybe limit my excessive whining to the blogosphere. Are you glad I'm back?

First Week Back

Seriously guys, I had a choice to make. It was blog or sprawl out on my living room floor with my tongue lolling out the side of my mouth.

Lucky for you--blog!

My classes are great. They actually seem relevant to--I dunno--real life, and my readings have been interesting. Extremely lengthy, but interesting. I mean, if you haven't read The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, stop reading my blog and go read that instead. I never thought reading about economics could be so mind-blowing and terrifying.

I also spend a lot of time at crew, because it owns my soul. Its most recent coup over my life had me running back to my apartment at 7:30am in -2 degree weather with wet hair from lifting and swimming. After my hair completely froze the first time, I realized I would have to figure out a different kind of schedule. Also, because I usually don't return to my apartment during the day, I carry my entire life around with me. My political theory professor took a look at me with my huge crew bag and over-flowing book bag and asked, "What, are you moving in?"

Granted, he is the snarkiest person I have ever met (awesome) and also looks like he should be teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry instead of Ithaca College.


My macroeconomics class has not killed me yet, but I did almost choke to death when my professor said the words "problem sets."



My apartment is awesome. At this point I'm pretty sure the only thing missing are cookies. 

It feels fantastic to be back. It's really cold to be back, but whatever. I missed you, Ithaca.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

You are all quite familiar with how awesome my dad is. Today is his birthday.

Here are some things my Dad has that I have:

1. When I find something that I like, I stick to it. Dad could eat Life cereal every breakfast for the rest of his life and be totally fine with it. This loyalty carries over to the people he loves in his life. It does not carry over to football, seeing as he just sent an article to my mother and me that basically said, "Stop torturing yourself with this whole Redskins-fandom thing...please for the love of God just stop."

2. A quiet demeanor: Dad is quiet, and he uses words carefully. He taught us to say what we mean and mean what we say. I took this respect for language and ran with it. He's probably to blame for my intense love of writing. He is also to blame for my love of crime thrillers (Dennis Lehane, I'm looking at you.) Actually, his mom is probably to blame for that, but that's another story.

(This love of words has not translated into any effort into actually editing my blog instead of word-vomiting and posting. Unfortunately.)

3. A love of music. I, a 20 year-old woman, went to a concert with my dad this summer. And it rocked. Dad taught me that a song can change your day and it's worth it to sit in the car for a few extra minutes to hear that one guitar solo.

4. My height. Well, he's half to blame at the very least. GEE THANKS GUYS.

5. Certainty. My Dad and I generally believe we are right about most things. My Dad is like this because he usually is right about things. I am like this because I am from Washington, DC.

Things My Dad Has that I WISH I Had


1. An ability to master any skill. If my Dad wants to learn something, he will do so and become very good at it. He puts his mind to it and focuses, learning everything from sculling, timber-framing, guitar, bass, to tai chi just because he wants to. If my inability to not run away and hide during Granddaughters Week Crafting Sessions is any indication, I have a ways to go on my ability to master challenging skills.


2. Ability to say the right thing at the right time. My Dad is the real-life combination of all those inspirational coaches you see in movies. Sometimes he does have to let you run through the mud a bit and scrape your knees from falling, but he always knows the exact lesson you need to learn. And he'll tell you when the time's right, and he'll choose his words carefully.


3. Ability to dunk. Okay, so my dad kind of had that until his ankles rebelled against him, but seriously, WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?


4. My Dad knows and full-heartedly believes that you deserve to love what you're doing. My Dad believes in that dream you have, and thinks you should have it. Just take it with a shot of realism, and you're on your way to a Paulson-family upbringing.


So, thanks, Dad. I know you're skiing today, and it's something you love to do. Just don't try to do any flips this trip, okay?

Amsterdam.

I am uncomfortable with the concept of Amsterdam as a memory.

It has been two weeks since I left—a tumultuous blur of travel, holidays, celebration, family, and re-acquaintance with the United States.

Last week I got lunch with an Amsterdam friend, and we shared the same startling fact: Amsterdam feels like it was a dream. Because once you’re suddenly back in the room you grew up in that’s covered in swim signs and childhood pictures and old magazine cut-outs of Tom Brady, a part of you clicks back into place. Whether you’d like it to or not.

It’s a scary automatic thing. What does it say about me, about us, if we accept the challenges and change of such a transformative experience only to separate from it so suddenly and cleanly once we reenter our comfort zone?

I had a moment in one of the last weeks I had there. It was a Thursday night—snow had blanketed the ground that day and we’d hiked over to the brewery to grab a few drinks before the night’s later festivities. After a beer, I dipped out early to get a few more paragraphs done on my paper before I could enjoy the night without guilt. I walked back along the canal, and there was no one else in sight. I stopped for a minute, hands in pockets, and took a breath. This is a moment, I thought. It’s quiet. I live here. This is a moment. What does it mean? And I racked by brain, destroying the pricelessness of it all in my unceasing desire to document and categorize my obsessive sentimentality, only to realize it meant nothing at all.

But that, in itself, was the beauty of it. We take our experiences abroad in their most extremes. We spend much of our time processing wondrous sights, heightened anxieties, and unfamiliar everything.  In that moment, I was suspended between it all, enveloped in a city that had become home, marveling at a city that could somehow become quiet, assuaging creeping fears of a stressful finals season, warming at the discovery of great friends.

Amsterdam was my fairytale—a happily ever after that included customs and security check at the Philadelphia International Airport. In my fairytale, the heroine escapes from the most comfortable of towers and learns to navigate the forest without any help from a white knight or friendly woodland creatures. My heroine rides a purple rusty bike instead of a stallion, wears leggings instead of a gown, and doesn’t get any guy at the end. But man, does she have a good story to tell.

I will continue to encounter people who will ask, “Well, how was it?” and I will continue to be absolutely unable to respond. I feel just as unsure about how to finish this post. Some of it’s fear, because a conclusion means it’s really over. Here’s a go at it: It was great, it was awesome, it was scary, it was beautiful, it was cold, it was rainy, it was sunny, it was friendly, it was busy, it was touristy, it was homey, it was nothing I expected but everything I wanted.

That’s how it was. Any more questions?  

Getting Stuff Done

I have about a week left in Amsterdam. Home will be great, but I DO NOT want to leave. You can't make me. I know they made squatting illegal in the Netherlands just a few months ago, but seriously, I will need to be dragged onto the plane.

Anyway. These "finals" things are definitely making me ready to go home for the holidays, despite my reverse-culture-shock fears of going back to the US.

I have one final and one big presentation DONE. That feels good. Still up is finishing my seminar paper and a final the night before I leave the country.

I can do this.

On a happier note, I realized I forgot to blog about this time I went to a castle and it was awesome.

Barcelona

You guys. I can't even...I mean...Barcelona.

Don't get me wrong. It's the most beautiful city I've ever seen. It was about 20 degrees warmer than Amsterdam. I got to speak Spanish! Sangria! TAPAS! Churros!

But just about everything that could go wrong did. I am fairly convinced this trip was cursed from the day we bought our tickets. It was like every great amazing trip was coming back to be laugh in my face and say, "SEE? THESE THINGS ACTUALLY HAPPEN."

Okay. I'll take a breather. You look at this pretty picture while I do so.

Okay, still not ready to write this. Look at this one, too.

I KNOW, PALM TREES, RIGHT? 

Also, this thing is called the Arc d' Triumf. Which would not be weird at all because it's a pretty triumphant arch, but they kind of have one in Paris already. I mean, whatever.

Okay, here's how we'll do this. I'll tell you a crappy thing that happened, and then show you something pretty. If I run out, I'll just post some pictures of kittens. I won't run out though, because the city was so gorgeous I took approximately 50,000. 

We got to the airport. EasyJet, or NotEasyAtAllMostStressfulAirlineEver, decides not to post the gate until after the gates technically close. Cue travel anxiety, and strong consideration of buying an extremely overpriced airport cocktail. Resist. Like money. 

When they post it after a billion hours, we run to the gate and wait for our boarding passes to be scanned so we can go outside and sit in the plane (or glorified child's plaything...I'm still not so sure...). My friend Chelsea goes first, and the flight lady looks at it, squints, and says something in Dutch with an irritated tone. "Um, sorry?" Chelsea replies. "This ticket is for yesterday." 

We all hurriedly look at our tickets, but ours are correct. They send her out the door. "Try tomorrow."

A woman down.

PRETTY PICTURE

The Olympic Port. I'll have a yacht, please?

We white-knuckled the flight and giggled through it, despite the shock of having lost an entire person. Once we got to the airport, it was dark outside, but we saw palm trees. Therefore, we were pretty upbeat. We found the bus that would take us to the city center, where we could take the metro to our hostel. The bus was 5 euros for approximately ten minutes of travel. Sigh.

We exited the bus around the tourist mecca that is Las Ramblas. There was a metro station right there, and we began to root through our belongings to get out our cash to buy passes. Behind me, I heard, "Guys. OH MY GOD. GUYS."

Heart stops.

Behind us is Gaudi's Sagrada Famila. Coolest building I've ever seen. Also, I wear the same exact outfit every time I travel. Sorry.

Danielle's wallet had been stolen exactly 2 seconds after arriving in the city of Barcelona. 

We stood there in kind of a shocked silence among the flashing lights and never ending bustle of the city. 

With our rusty spanish skills, we managed to find a police station nearby. They barely spoke spanish, because the official city language is Catalan. So they directed us to another, which supposedly had a translator. They didn't but we got a form for her to fill out. 

After a 30 minute Metro ride we got to our hostel and managed to find it, even though it was kind of a hole in the wall. Even though it was nearly midnight by that point, they directed us to a nearby pizza place.

THIS PART IS REALLY HAPPY, BECAUSE I GOT PIZZA!

We were able to get in touch with her parents, so they could start figuring out how the heck we were going to get money. See, we had four people and only two people with cash. Before my friend Bre had left, her debit card had been "compromised." So, no cash for her. 

The next day, we got money wired to Bre and the IES office in Barcelona got cash for Danielle. We spent the rest of the day reveling in the sunlight and exploring. It was great. 

That night, we went out. Past 2 a.m. Unbeknownst to us, this meant the metro was closed, and we walked an hour back to our hostel, getting directions from creeped-out hotel desk workers who only came up to the door when we banged on them. You see, my family has this saying that nothing good happens after 3 am. You've probably heard it. It's probably really common, but I'm planting our flag there, okay? Anyway, my parents are right. Fine. 

Our hostel was on the side of a busy road and so incredibly loud none of us could sleep. And when I say it was incredibly loud, believe me. I live directly in front of train tracks in Amsterdam and I sleep like a baby.

We expected to get Chelsea that day and had heard from her when she left from the airport. We didn't know that she would sit on the tarmac for two hours, until the pilot came on and said, "Well guys, air traffic control just went on strike in Spain, so, we're cancelled."

She may have been lucky. 

Because the next day, we went to the Olympic port and gazed out at the sea, the beautiful buildings and markets, went to the maritime museum (which is...actually a boat) and basked in the sun. Oh wait, that's good. What I've failed to mention is that drinking the water got us sick and at least one of us ended up puking in a trash can on the beach and a few of us took high advantage of the Starbucks bathroom. 

Yeah, you needed to know that. 

But hey, Spaniards love their Starbucks. The things were everywhere. 

Okay. So, that night. Ever heard of the Rocky Horror Picture Show? Well, it's this cult classic movie that people act in front of and sometimes interrupt to throw food at people--apparently--and Danielle is a huge fan. So when she found out that a Spanish theatre does it the first weekend of every month, we decided to go. A cult musical in Spanish? I'm in. 

We found our way there. Well, not actually because it was the wrong theatre. They helped us figure out where it was, and we ran/walked to the real theatre. We got there with ten minutes to spare, breathless with self-satisfaction and success. "Oh, I'm sorry, December is the only month of the year we don't do it."

Really. 

REALLY. 

But, we made the best of it. How? We spent our allotted ticket money entirely on gelato and strolled through the city, gazing at the blinking Christmas lights and eating iced sugary goodness while wearing scarves and gloves. 

The next morning, we hiked up the mountain until it started to rain, at which point we ran down the mountain. 

We grabbed our stuff. Exhausted, queasy, delightfully pink-cheeked, and one wallet and one girl fewer, we made our way to the airport. 

Barcelona is the most beautiful place I have ever seen, hands down. I'm glad I went and had the experiences I did. But dang, Barca, you sure know how to make a girl want to leave.

I did have a little moment when we arrived back out our apartments. It felt like I was home, and crawling into bed was a relief. After four months, the canal houses, winding bike lanes, clanging trams, and cold winds have become the familiar. Amsterdam is the best city in Europe. Go. Pictures mean nothing to this city--it's an atmosphere you have to live. I am going to hate, hate, HATE to leave. But at the same time, going home, really going home, will be the best Christmas present ever.

Oh. And, this happened. 

Berlin!

Berlin.

I'm kind of beyond trying to put an entire city--so rich in history, culture, AWESOMENESS--into words, so I'm going to keep doing these in mostly pictures. That cool witchu? Also, I've got to save some stories to actually tell you guys face to face. Also also, I'm lazy. And busy. And this is way late.

Yeah, there was a ski slope IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CITY.

The park.

Funny story about this one. For history nerds. Ask me about it sometime.

The Reichstag. Also featured is the crazy weather.

Probably my favorite building in Europe. SO COOL at night. Also, check the Soviet television pole on the right. 

My amazing, trusty travel mates! We were tired here. But cheery.

Go to the East Side Gallery. Just go. Artists covered a mile-long piece of the Berlin wall. It's beautiful and moving.

And I'm the kid that had to take a picture with Einstein because she went to Einstein High. I never doubt that I'm SO AMERICAN. 

Oh, here's the hundreds of Germans gathering on a Sunday to watch random people karaoke. It's true. The Germans do love the '80s. 

That's your little taste of Berlin. Old and new, historical and graffitied, sad but celebratory.