Viva Hollandia: A Toast to New Friends and Travels Yet to Come

It’s finally time. My bags are packed, sitting in a bulging heap of fabric by the front door, my goodbyes said, and my room is the cleanest it’s ever been, which is to say, empty.

I’ll be heading home soon, and despite having navigated maps written in seven different languages across two continents, I’m not sure which way to go.

For the first time in a long time, I’m lost for words. No arrangement of sentences or paragraphs put to paper could adequately describe all I’ve experienced during the past six months.

          Nor can they possibly explain this picture

 This is my last post though, and as such, I feel to leave it at that would be a disservice. At the very least, I owe you, the reader, some sort of meaningful resolution; a sense of closure that maybe…just maybe…. scratches the surface of describing the adventure.

 To put it as simply as possible, I’ve been supremely fortunate over the past six months to feel at home in places that couldn’t be further away from home.

 It’s a simultaneously unsettling and assuring realization, because it implies being ‘home’ is not dependent upon physical location. Rather, ‘home’ is a state of mind available at any time and in any place, and everyone has his or her own recipe for it.

 Home for me is one part Colorado, where I was lucky enough to spend my first 18 years on this earth.

Where a landscape so divinely carved by nature emits a resonant, organic charm that never ceases to make leaving more difficult.

Where my roots as a person – my family and my friends – took hold in the lush fertile soil of the foothills.

 Where my body learned to draw every molecule of oxygen it could from the thin, icy air at the bases of the snow-capped mountains I can’t wait to see again.

                                                

                                               Feast your eyes

Home is one part South Carolina, where I learned to value a lifestyle that takes things a little slower.

Where it’s okay, even necessary, to toss the work aside for the day and enjoy a cold drink, warm weather, and Saturday football games on a tailgate under a grove of palmetto trees.

Where 18 holes and a six-pack of Natty is always exactly what the doctor ordered

Where the immensely powerful (albeit, expensive) hand of higher education unearthed passions I didn't know I possessed.

                                    

                                    *Choirs of Angels sing "Simple Man"*

And now, home is one part Rotterdam – a city that rose defiantly from the ashes of Hitler’s blitzkrieg not only to begin anew, but thrive.

Emblazoned across the bottom of the city’s coat of arms is the phrase Sterker door strijd, or, “Stronger Through Struggle.” It’s fitting, because I feel Rotterdam is where I’ve become just that.

It’s where I became irreversibly enriched and profoundly blessed with a new group of driven, accepting, and erudite friends from all over the world.

It’s where I learned of, and will forever cherish, Kralingen Bos’s ability to soothe hangovers and an anxious soul.

It’s where the nights spent in Jordan’s room playing Asshole and the subsequent club outings provided no shortage of honest words, hilarious stories, and very real friendships built over bummed cigarettes and Kapsalon sunrises.

Anyone who says money can't buy happiness has clearly never spent 6 euros on a large Kapsalon after a night of drinking and subsequent moral bankruptcy 

It’s where I was forced to confront my inadequacies and insecurities head on, only to realize that I needed only to confront myself.

It’s where I learned that movement does not equal progress and that progress is not so much a great leap forward as it is an accumulated product of daily diligence and ceaseless drive.

It’s where I realized all things are external to us, and thus, that only our perception of the external has the ability to dictate our reality.

This same sensation of feeling at home in a foreign place is not specific just to Rotterdam either. Home is now equal parts Amsterdam, Delft, Utrecht, Den Haag, Antwerp, Brussels, Bruges, Berlin, Cologne, Marrakech, Agadir, Taghazout, Prague, Milan, Paris, Rimini, Rome, and every cobblestone, train station, hotel balcony, pub-crawl, 4am conversation, and smoky bar in between.

 

Unseen picture: The Gentlemen of Rimini (Dan-o, Habibi, Laucha, Philippe).

It’s odd to think I’ve probably done more in six months than most people get to do in a lifetime. From drunkenly roaming Italian beaches under the stars to getting showered with champagne in a Czech club, every single moment has been a pulse-pounding delight; a cocktail of adrenaline and pure bliss that spirals down my spine and courses through my blood, even as I write.

     

It’s a time that I will forever regard as the spark that ignited a fire in my soul; an experience that unleashed latent passions with such joyous fury that the point between what I thought I could do and what I found myself capable of doing could not have been more clearly defined. It’s true: more often than not, you are the only thing keeping you from what you want.

More so, I’m incredibly grateful to have done it all with a group of people who equipped me with new eyes; a group of people who injected me with an unbelievably potent mixture of similar aspirations, contagious passion, and new perspective; a group of people who brought parts of me once dead or dormant roaring back to life.

          

                      We're all demons, and it's not even the full group

In that sense, I regard study abroad not so much as an end, but as the beginning of something completely new. It may be the end of constantly seeing and experiencing the people who allowed this change to occur, but that in and of itself does not signify the end of the metamorphosis that was set in motion.

 This is beginning of a new wanderlust. It’s the beginning of another new adventure; a new level of exploration and camaraderie, the roots of which are so firmly entrenched in Dutch soil they can never be replaced.

                                    A fitting photo...roots....ya know. Hah.

Today, I watched the sun rise over the leafy treetops stretching down Oostzeedijk, and tonight, I’ll watch the sunset over mountains 3,000 miles away as life in Rotterdam carries on. It makes me realize that even though we all came from the most varied corners of the planet, we’ll all always have Rotterdam in common, no matter where we go or what we do. It’s as much a part of us as anywhere else.

 Doesn't get much better

To all the RSM 2013-2014 Exchange Group and the students at Erasmus University: Dank je wel. This level of personal freedom and sublime fulfillment would not have been attainable without you all. Other exchange groups may come and go, but none of them will ever have as much fun as we've had or be half as close as we are.

I know it sucks to say goodbye, but I also know that you’re all profoundly fascinating people whom I greatly anticipate seeing again. I hope this experience has meant as much to you as it does to me. Now let's all go out and make money so we can have a champagne shower of a reunion at Club Bed when we're pushing 35. Ya'll are the best.  #HupHollandHup

                             Make more of that spinach stuff, Burcin

Also, to my roommates: Oostzeedijk 164c can never be undone. I’ve had an unbelievable amount of fun living with you all, and I’ll always regard ya’ll as the next best thing to family….a family of occasionally ratchet degenerates who provided an ever-consoling level of stability and familiarity in a faraway place. I can’t wait to see ya’ll back in Columbia in the Fall (even though the fact we’ll have classes together is terrifying). Thank you for making even the moments that are supposed to be boring anything but. See ya'll soon. Go Gamecocks. 

Lastly, thank you to everyone for your loyal readership, whether you loved every word or barely skimmed my posts out of sympathy. Hopefully I’ve left you blubbering like a tween girl at the end of “The Fault in Our Stars” or, at the very least, provided a brief respite from summertime monotony.

In the words of Professor Dan Ostergaard, “Here’s to the good ships, the wood ships, the ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are our friendships, and may they always be.”

Cheers ya’ll, wherever you may be.

Until next time,

 

- Drew 

Paris

When I first sat down to write this post, I found myself running into a brick wall when it came to creating a title. The famed author/angelically-bearded Ernest Hemingway once said, "My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way."

                                     Look at that facial flow...LOOK AT IT!

Like Hemingway, I found Paris exhilarating and hardly in need of an introduction. Hence, the uncharacteristically pointed title of this post.

 I've now been twice in less than ten days, and can safely say The City of Lights is one of the most perfect places in the world. 

Nowhere else can one go from enjoying world famous art to quaffing world famous wine to eating world famous food in the span of a few hours. Public gardens such as the Jardin des Tuileries put other titans of floral exhibition from Central Park to Chanticlear to shame. The back streets of starving artist haven Montmarte might as well have been taken out of a Disney movie (if, you know, Disney movies included drunken sexual escapades and manic-depressive tendencies).

                                   Van Gogh cut off his ear somewhere near here
                                    
Oh, did I mention the museums are free with a student ID card?

Yep. Just skip the line at the Louvre, flash your card to the ticket collectors at the entrances to any of the former palace's hallowed halls, and enjoy. Apparently, after Robespierre guillotined pretty much everyone in France, including Louis XVI, people decided the same artwork once reserved for the aristocratic elite should be opened for viewing to anyone and everyone. 

                   Arterial blood makes for a good contrast, according to this critic

As much as I admire this state-endorsed provision of some of history's most famed art pieces and worldly treasures, I'd be lying if I told you it was enough for Paris to win my affection. 

To be honest, it was pretty much all about the food, and assuming you haven't been living in a cave all your life, you've probably heard a thing or two about the nearly-sexual nature of French cuisine. In that sense, Paris is to food porn what Amsterdam is to actual porn. From crepes to duck confit to exotic cheeses, every single bite of every meal was without comparison, especially considering that I'd come from subsisting mainly off oats, honey, and yogurt here in Rotterdam.

                                             Omg, get inside me
Sure, it was expensive. The concentration of wealth in Paris is absolutely on a whole different level. If you're reading this back home in Colorado, the only way I would describe Paris is that it pretty much makes Cherry Hills Village look like the projects of Los Angeles

Even so, to think that I was able to completely and fully experience a city which played host to Napoleon and Hitler, Picasso and Dali, Voltaire and Dumas, and countless legends of history for as much as I spent made it worth every penny.

The French have a favorite saying from writer Andre Breton which states, "Rien ne sert d'être vivant s'il faut qu'on travaille," meaning, "Being alive serves no purpose if you have to work."  Despite their reputation for indolence, I found the French to be well-read, astute, and enjoyable people adept in exercising the concept of joie de vivre; a steady exaltation of one's true self and a persistent appreciation for the little things in life.

In my opinion, it's a state of mind Americans would be well-served in emulating, and a state of mind that I find myself missing already.

Thanks for reading everyone! I've now got less than a month left here in Rotterdam, and as my new friends from exchange return to their varied homelands, I will now focus my attention on composing my final Wanderlust Rotterdam post: a farewell letter to Rotterdam, to the amazing country that is The Netherlands, and a "see you later" to all the amazing people I've been so blessed to meet over here.

I'll probably cry. All you Wanderlust readers here in Rotterdam will probably cry, but it goes without saying: this is only the beginning of a new Wanderlust; a new chapter in our lives which we attack with enthusiasm and renewed vigor, consoled with the fond memories of our new friends, and eager to experience more.

Cheers ya'll,

Drew 

La Vita Bella: Milan, Rimini, and Rome

I didn't realize it until now, but both Assassins Creed II and Dan Brown's Angels & Demons were probably the main reasons I wanted to go to Italy (along with gelato, pizza, and finding a supermodel for a wife).

                                         I want u...no, not u, the pizza
It wasn't until I found myself sitting on a train from Milan to the small beach town of Rimini on Italy's east coast with a dead phone, dead laptop, and nothing else to distract me that I fully began to appreciate the subtle nuances of this amazing country.

Mile after mile, one immaculately green vineyard after another stretches over hills and plains dotted with grain fields and olive trees and small farmhouses from which work trucks of some better vanished time carry the fruits of a farmer's labor along a dirt road, their silhouettes kicking dust into the long shadows formed by a golden sunset.

                                   I want to be reincarnated as a Sangiovese

Trim, established businessmen with salt and pepper beards in Savile Row suits spoke with one another like long-lost friends on matters of soccer and family, while a young (and might I add, incredibly gorgeous) new mother sipped an espresso after putting her newborn to sleep. A train official came by and flamboyantly punched three holes in each ticket before giving each and every person a warm smile and a sincere "Gratze." Strangers laughed with other strangers as they took turns telling jokes about Silvio Berlusconi.

 Seriously, if I didn't know any better, I would've thought this train was the site of a family reunion. It was like everyone was happy to see everyone else. Moreover, as much damage as the cerebrally-deficient cast of Jersey Shore did to my impression of Italy, I can honestly say my expectations were more than surpassed.

                                 It's pretty easy to surpass such low standards 

Once in Rimini, our group/Tchoukball team – consisting of myself, my roommates Dan, Kelsey, and Jordan, Jordan's younger sister Hannah, Brian and Philippe from Montreal, and Lautaro from Argentina – found ourselves eating some of the best seafood pasta we've ever had at a beachside hotel catering to the various geriatric and professional squads in town for the annual Rimini Beach Tchoukball Festival.

What is Tchoukball, you ask?

Essentially, the bastard child of handball and volleyball. Two teams of five people each compete on a volleyball-sized court with two upward-inclined square frames with a taut, trampoline-esque center positioned at either end. A five foot semicircle of cones encloses each frame, and teams take turns shooting at these frames, the objective being to ricochet the ball off the trampoline material and land it on the ground beyond the semicircle, outside which opposing team members may do anything to preclude the ball from hitting the ground.

                            Hey, look, someone found a pic of me playing!!!
How we even managed to win two games, I'll never know. Considering we didn't even know the rules until AFTER our first game – as well as our propensity to drink to excess before and after each match – I'll just chalk it up to pure North/South American athleticism.

When we weren't suffering embarrassing losses at the hands of 14 year-old Swiss Tchoukball prodigies, we spent the rest of our time walking the length of the beach and laying on The Rocks. Aptly named, The Rocks were basically an artificial mussel/shellfish farm of large, flat rocks situated in the turquoise shallows of the Adriatic. It was here where we would lay out to recover, tan, and generally relish in the fact that, unlike some of our other excursions abroad, nothing was going horribly wrong.

                                               Those rocks doe....

After all, we were living like aristocrats eating homemade pasta and tiramisu every night, the weather was perfect, and our only real concern was whether we'd have red or white wine with dinner. Most of the time, we just got both.

For the first time in a long time, I could physically feel my problems melting away into the salty air. There were no obligations, no worries, no assignments, and no news to drain our optimism away. There was only a certain Epicurean appreciation for the present. For a split second, the world was only as large as Rimini, Italy, and the small sailboats bouncing over the waves on an infinite horizon. It's because of those moments of tranquility and complete absence of pain – physical and mental – that I'll always love the place.

                                            Team Mr. Mojo Rising

After a few nights in Rimini, it was onwards to Rome, and I'll admit: I was a bit intimidated at first. As the oldest continuously populated city in the world and once the seat of power for an empire which fundamentally altered the course of history, how couldn't I be? How couldn't anyone be? Rome was there for thousands of years before us and it will be there for thousands of years after we're gone. Time after time, the city saw the likes of Nero, Caesar, Caligula, da Vinci, and Michelangelo rise and fall, and thus, I was expecting to be greeted with an air of deserved superiority.

                       And also, Russell Crowe asking me if I was enjoying Rome

Not so.

From the halls of St. Peter's to the Trevi Fountain to the Colosseum, Rome was undoubtedly the most photogenic city I've ever visited. Around every corner, seemingly infinite cobblestone alleyways lined with quaint restaurants, boutiques, and buskers gave way to thriving squares centered around a famous sculpture or fountain which, instead of being cordoned off and guarded, were just....open to anyone and everyone who passed by. I'm sure if Bernini knew how many laser pointers and cones of gelato were being sold around the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, I'm pretty sure he'd want to join in the fun.

                                    Literally how did you do that, Bernini?
As we took turns throwing coins into the Trevi Fountain, I couldn't help but notice the staggering amount of people around us. Normally, I'm okay with crowds, but pass a certain number, and I'll inevitably suffer an existential crisis. And yet, despite the surging masses of tourists like us, I never once felt claustrophobic or out of place in Rome.

The locals were more than forgiving, as if cognizant of The Eternal City's mass appeal. Tourists from diametrically opposed corners of the globe shared expressions of shock and awe with one another at the Colosseum. Even the Italians from our exchange group, who are not all from Rome, recommend Rome, and now, I see why.

Rome is timeless, and more so than any other city in the world. The cumulative weight of history concentrated in the Foro Romano, the Spanish Steps, the fountains, and most of all, the Basilica, virtually guarantees you'll find something interesting around every corner. Despite its past, Rome is abuzz with activity; simultaneously reverent of tradition and still forward thinking.
 

Shoutout to my girl Hilary Duff

It wasn't until I found myself in a pew at St. Peters with my friend Brian, eyes locked on the tomb of (now) St. John Paul II that I truly appreciated Rome not for its religious significance, but for its universally spiritual significance.

See, we weren't in the pew alone: Arabic-speaking women in burqas, Hindis, priests, younger kids, and elderly people in walkers all occupied seats around us. Of course, I know the Church doesn't exactly have the best track record for, you know, tolerating others, but I couldn't help but feel, in that moment, a profound sense of acceptance and fellowship with these complete strangers.

                                         "Lord gon' bless da child."
It wasn't like I received some grand vision from the Almighty or a hallucination brought on by religious fervor, but instead, just a soft reminder that everyone has a story. Everyone should be judged not by their allegiances to an organization, but by the strength of their conviction to do good unto others.

Rome was good to me in that it accepted me for who I was. In that sense, there's a lot the world can learn from the Eternal City.

Thanks for reading ya'll, and Cheers from Rotterdam

-Drew  

 

 



 

  

An Epiphany on Time and The Importance of Having a Motto

Upon opening my laptop yesterday morning in the campus food/study court, reality hit me like a brick lobbed by Macaulay Culkin from the rooftop of a decrepit New York apartment building in Home Alone 2: I've only got a month and a half left here in Rotterdam.

                                         How did this guy NOT DIE?!

I feel like I've now gained a sense of what parents mean when they say, "It seems like only yesterday you were in diapers." Time seems to have both sped up to breakneck speeds and slowed to a slothly crawl. The linear, deadline salient part of my mind says, "You've been here for five months. That's a pretty long time." and another says, "Five months is only a chip of the tip of the iceberg, bruh."

                                                   "Back up, son."

Since doing schoolwork was out of the question, I started thinking about how traveling affects my perception of passing time, and I subsequently concluded that traveling has a paradoxical ability to slow time down, whereas staying put counterintuitively speeds time up. As we grow older, have kids, and surrender the fast times of virile youth, the more sedentary we become, thus making our perception of time speed up to the point that we look at the passing of each year with incredulous dismay.

On the other hand, traveling allows us to experience places and people only briefly in terms of clock hands and calendar days, but at such depth that we tend to perceive it to be longer.

                                                My face in Starbucks
In that sense, time is indeed money. It serves as a currency in its truest form; as a medium of exchange which inherently acts as a store of economic or psychological value. Just like money, you can invest time in the right things just as easily as you can waste time on the wrong things. You can have a lot of it or none at all.

                                            Literal wheelbarrows full of time

So really, when you think about it, and assuming you agree with the notion that time and money are interchangeable terms, sacrificing your time for money doesn't make much sense. It's like trading money for money.

If that's the case, then homeless people technically would be the richest people in the world, whereas the perpetually busy, 80 hour workweek Fortune 500 company executives would be the most destitute of us all.

                                                 I stack bills, playa

Though I'm still relatively new to this whole "real world" idea, I know enough to know this not how the world works

"How come, Drew?"

Ah, I was hoping you'd ask, because just like money, it doesn't matter the amount of time we have that determines its value, but instead, the amount of time we use. Thus, it's better to use a small amount of time and wring out every last drop of its value than it is to hoard it.

In case nobody has told you, "studying abroad" consists of maybe one week, cumulatively, of actual study. The rest of that time is yours to expend as you see fit, not accounting for necessities, such as sleep.

                                 Sometimes, we sleep on floors

I only write about this epiphany of mine because, like anyone else, I'm guilty of wasting my free time. I stay on Facebook or Stumbleupon when I should probably be doing homework or studying. But, adding to the litany of lessons I've learned abroad, time you enjoy wasting is not the same as wasted time.

Plus, because we all know how easy it is to waste time, how do we ensure that, if we choose to waste time, we waste it effectively? I know it sounds crazy, but over the course of my five months here in Holland, I've been increasingly making a conscious effort to waste time.

True to economics, I incur an opportunity cost when I do this. I trade a two hour documentary for two hours that could've been spent on my assignments. But what do I gain? Perhaps new knowledge about something I never would've known about had my nose been buried in books all day; perhaps a new insight or understanding or perspective, the signal of which can only be detected when I make the conscious effort to devote my time to clearing out the white noise and clutter.

During these times, I've often find myself gravitating towards poetry, literature, music, art, and really anything that piques my interest and distracts me from the hustle and bustle of the world.

                                 What you'd see if you walked in my room rn

I've reread some of the books I used to complain about having to read in high school, poring over their precious contents to identify lessons I missed during English class, where I was too focused on my ability to formulaically regurgitate the information on a quiz, rather than think critically about the point the author was trying to convey and how it may relate to me as a person.

                              Dickens really isn't such an asshole after all

In the process, I've unearthed bite-sized bits of sage wisdom and timeless lessons that I'll cherish and remember just as vividly as the insane trips and the raging parties and the nights spent playing "President" in Jordan's room. I know it sounds oh so stereotypical of every person who's ever studied abroad in history, but I've really found myself here in Holland. For lack of a better word, I've found my motto(s), and for the first time, concretely defined what my values are as a person.

The point is, I don't write this blog so that everyone can think I'm The Man. I write it because.........well.........I enjoy it. I enjoy entertaining people and inspiring people. As such, it's not that I've attained some level of esoteric fulfillment reserved for the lucky few.  To the contrary, the whole point of this blog's is to serve as a testament to the fact that anyone, at any time, anywhere in the world is able to do cool shit.

                     You can do it...with a safety harness and testicular fortitude

Since I just know you've all been salivating in anticipation for these tasty AF morsels of life mottos I'm about to lay down, I'll leave you to them. But because the amount of material I find inspiration in could probably fill libraries, I've limited myself to the select few that I always find myself coming back to, as well as links and the reason why these pieces in particular were chosen.

As a final word, you may not identify with them as closely as I do, and that's okay. Under no circumstances should you allow me or anyone else to dictate what you can or cannot relate to. If you like them, great. If you don't, then you've already got a headstart on answering the "why not" side of the coin, which is often just as important.

Cheers everyone, and thanks for reading.

-Drew

Drewby's Top Ten Inspirational AF Books, Poems, and Quotes (in no particular order)

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley- A fantastic poem about the fleeting nature of power and the frighteningly ephemeral nature of life, as well as the title of the most spellbinding episode of Breaking Bad ever. It never ceases to entrance me.
http://www.online-literature.com/shelley_percy/672/

The Man in the Arena by Teddy Roosevelt - Another sweet ass, bomb ass, dank ass excerpt of a speech titled "Citizenship in a Republic" from arguably the coolest President in American history delivered at the Sorbonne in Paris. Essentially reminds me that 'tis better to try; to spend oneself in a worthy cause and fail than never try at all.
http://www.theodore-roosevelt.com/trsorbonnespeech.html

The Slight Edge by Jeff Olson - One of very few useful self-improvement/business books which posits success is the product of mundane habits doggedly conducted over a very long period of time.

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman - A great poem for travelers that emphasizes an appreciation for the outdoors and the democratic nature of traveling/meeting others. It's lackadaisical, uplifting, and beautifully written in rhythmic verse.
http://www.bartleby.com/142/82.html

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann - Very empowering poem that doles out some fantastic life advice and consoles the worried mind, all written in layman's terms. A personal favorite.
http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html

"Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day" by Shakespeare - Inspiring in that it forces you to realize that though you'll cease to exist someday, your legacy, your memory, and your words basically make you immortal.
http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/shall-i-compare-thee-summers-day-sonnet-18

"Invictus" by William Earnest Henley - Kicks you in the balls with a visceral message that always reminds us we are more in control of ourselves than we think. Last two lines are definitely among the best denouements in literary history.
http://www.bartleby.com/103/7.html

"Never fear quarrels, but seek hazardous adventures"- Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers, ie don't allow fear of conflict to preclude your pursuit of whatever you enjoy.

"If" by Rudyard Kipling- Kipling had a pretty god-awful childhood and he still turned out alright I guess. Basically, it says if you can weather the shitstorm of life without forsaking your beliefs, you'll be a better person because of it.
http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_if.htm

"Harbors rot ships and men." - Admiral Nelson. Short. Sweet. To the point. Always reminds me that to move is to be alive; that when faced with something in your life, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the second best is to do the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing at all.




     

Czech Yo' Self: Prague and the Bursting of the Bubble

I'm currently writing this post from my balcony, where it's approximately 18 degrees Celsius, 6:28pm, and sublime. The entire sky of Rotterdam has been set aglow with a soft, peach-colored haze of sunlight. Birds are chirping from a nearby rooftop, and a light breeze is wafting the scent of freshly-bloomed cherry blossoms through the lush green leaves basking in the radiant warmth and sporting a healthy springtime sheen.

I just returned from Prague, and despite three nights of alcohol-induced insanity, I've never felt better. It only makes sense that despite the exhilaration of travel, the incurred bodily costs accumulate and leave one tired, sore (if you eat shit down the stairs in a club like me) and in need of recovery.

                     You'll need all the recovery time you can get if you drink this

And yet, this time at least, I don't feel tired. Quite the opposite in fact. It's not that Prague wasn't a heart-racing, adrenaline/alcohol-soaked spectacle of an adventure. It truly was. It's instead, because the thrill of the material world can never persist as long as the thrill of discovering something useful about yourself.

How I even ended up in Prague on less than 24 hours notice is a mystery to me. I just kinda heard from two friends – Ginder from London and Liuna from Texas – that they'd be going, contemplated the logistics, for a moment, and then booked a departing flight four hours from the time I clicked, "Confirm Flight Booking" with Ginder, Liuna, Tushita, and Chelsea.

                       Great time with Tina, Liuna, Tushita, and Chelsea but.....

                                  Bros gotta keep each other from going insane

By most accounts, I'd consider myself a spontaneous person. Like the rest of the world however, I often wrestle with the little voice in the back of my mind that says, "You can't do it."

You can't do it, you've got a case study to do for Supply Chain. You can't do it, you don't have enough money. You can't do it, you've gotta work out tomorrow.

Yeah, little guy? GTFO. 

Assuming you're a human being like the rest of us, your existence has come pre-loaded with two legs (since we're assuming you don't have a birth defect or something), a brain (however proficient), and an inherent desire to do what makes you happy. But so often, as we are creatures of habit, the little voice is enough to prevent any able-bodied, sufficiently financed person from breaking out of their comfort zone.

                                     

Another friend here at RSM named Jeff "Son of Jet" Li recently wrote a fantastic blog post on the concept of bubbles. A bubble is a machine of monotony; it consists of your daily routines, your comfort with the familiar, and your "average day" type stuff. Put another way, imagine an actual bubble or glass dome that covers your hometown, your workplace, or wherever it is you spent the majority of your time. It's clear, meaning you can see the world around you. You can see the exciting stuff that occurs outside the bubble or dome, and yet it takes a conscious effort on your part to leave the bubble and get there.

                                                   Burst that shit

Don't get me wrong, having a routine is unquestionably beneficial. At the same time, I've found that a routine can be equally poisonous to personal growth. It can imprison you within your bubble or darken your glass dome to the point that you don't even see what's happening in the world around you.

In that sense, Prague was symbolic of me not only leaving my bubble, but shattering my metaphorical glass dome into millions of little shards and stepping over them barefooted before taking off in a dead sprint, headlong into a world able to be seized by all those who seize the opportunities bequeathed to them. 

I've recently made the curious observation that I often forget I have senses, and have since concluded that this is yet another negative effect of bubbles. Sight, smell, touch, hearing, and taste are all diluted in bubbles. You can only see the same things and eat the same foods for so long before your brain grows tired of once-fascinating stimuli.

All of that changed in Prague.

The city is a sensory paradise. From warm sweet bread at the Easter markets to the most aesthetically-pleasing architecture I've ever seen, Prague was pretty much a picture-perfect postcard of quintessential Europe. The people are incredibly friendly and kind to tourists, the nightlife is an absolute blast, and everything is cheap, convenient, clean, and 21 year-old study abroad student friendly. There is nothing pretentious about Prague; no gaudy gimmicks to attract masses of tourists; no pretenses, just authentic appeal.

                           If you don't enjoy this, what's not having a soul like?

With the help of Liuna's friend Tina, another exchange student studying in Prague and potentially the world's finest amateur tour guide, we walked through spine-shiveringly beautiful public gardens on the hills near the royal palace. We watched an insanely-talented street guitarist play a tear-inducing acoustic version of U2's "With or Without You" on Easter Sunday.  

We also raged face at the infamous Prague Pub Crawl and the Karlovy Lazne Ice Bar, where I was personally tackled by Manti Te'o's girlfriend on a set of beer-soaked stairs, subsequently crumpling into a drunken heap in full view of hundreds of international partygoers. We took shots of Bohemian absinth and – as a consequence –  met people from all over the world. 

At any rate, it's not as if you must do the same things listed above to have a good time in the city, but there's undeniably a synergistic sense of awe in being able to party like any 21 year old should one day and drink in the view from the Charles Bridge the next.  

                                           One of the coolest places ever

I'm hopelessly in love with Prague, and if I had to put a finger on the tipping point where my initial affection transformed into enamoration, it was probably close to the sunset on our first day in the city.

We found ourselves walking amongst stalls in the market square wolfing down kielbasa and sipping effervescent spiked cider. Music was coming from all sides and the scent of various designer colognes and perfumes blended seamlessly with the sweet aroma of sugar bread. Tour groups and locals alike dotted the cobblestoned streets, steadily dispersing as the sun dipped below the rooftops of the gold-accented cathedrals and buildings. 

                               "Fairy Tale Land of 2 euro cocktails"- Tushita

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a haggard street performer mixing a large looped piece of rope in a soapy bucket. A few younger children stood nearby, obviously expecting something of him, so I took a moment to watch what he'd do. From out of the bucket, the man took the rope and swung it in a large semi-circular arc, producing, of all things I could've stopped to see, the largest bubble I've ever seen. The younger kids all looked up, mouths agape as if they'd just met Batman, as the massive translucent sphere floated upwards, its membrane rippling in the light wind. 

I watched the bubble float for awhile. Maybe a minute. Maybe ten minutes. I really don't know. I knew I had to catch up with Tina though, and so I hurriedly strolled off, tearing my eyes from the bubble. It might still be floating really. 

All I know is this: I would absolutely love to burst my bubble again and return to Prague someday, if only to have the opportunity to watch bubbles again.

Thanks for reading ya'll. Until next time,

Drew