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  

 

 



 

  

Ode to Club Bed

                     Likely the only non-incriminating photo of Club Bed in existence

For lack of a better phrase, Club Bed Rotterdam is everything your mother warned you about. When you crowd obscene numbers of 18-25 year old international university students – most of whom are already intoxicated – into a venue that sells cheap alcohol and plays ratchet music in a sultry, dimly-lit dungeon of a dance hall, odds are, shit's going to hit the fan on a weekly basis.

In fact, the metaphorical effluence will typically stream forth like some hormonal Niagara Falls, inundating the aforementioned fan in a veritable river of debauchery and loose morals.

That's precisely why we love it.

I think I speak for everyone when I say that every Tuesday, after an arduous day of class, drinking Irish Coffee, and watching documentaries, Club Bed provides a much-needed break from taking a break. It's quite literally, the weekly shitshow that drags you down from your cloister atop the Ivory Tower into a world of grit, grime, and self-imposed alcohol intoxication.

I know what you're saying: why not just study instead, right? This sounds crazy, but it's hard to study when everyone you know is out on the town, drink and drug-induced dopamine pouring into their bloodstreams, dancing on table tops, and bonding over conversations that can only occur when any semblance of sobriety is torn asunder.

The magic of Club Bed lies in its ability to make you aware of the fact that, instead of studying, you're chain-smoking cigarettes and dancing awkwardly in front of complete strangers, some of whom look like they might be human traffickers. Put another way, Club Bed is pretty much an opportunity to blackmail yourself into actually being productive for the remainder of the week.

Seriously. You wake up in the morning, perhaps with no recollection of the previous night's events. You're then forced to confront the reality that you've had your fun for the week, and therefore, must atone for your sins by putting in hours at the library. I think we can all agree, for the most part, that school isn't fun. Thus, one must take solace in an evening of merrymaking, however grossly disproportionate, if one hopes to avoid burning out on school/losing their soul entirely.

Surely, there are healthier ways to have fun. You could do yoga, go for a walk, draw, or play guitar, but all of these require effort. It's simply much easier, as a 21 year-old student studying abroad, to cut corners and let the five euro convenience store wine accomplish the task for you.

Moreover, if there's any further redeeming quality to Club Bed, it's this: I never once imagined that I would be drunkenly biking around a city like Rotterdam at 4:00a.m., narrowly avoiding errant car mirrors, and fleeing angry crack junkies, all with a person who was a complete stranger only weeks prior intermittently vomiting and losing consciousness while holding on for dear life on the back of the bike.

Going through such an experience with someone forms an inexplicable bond that persists, even into sobriety. It also makes for a great story that can be whipped out at any time in the future for some good old-fashioned nostalgia and laughter.

I feel like Club Bed brings everyone back down to Earth and there will always be a spot in my heart (and likely, my liver) for the place not because it enables the consummation of carnal vices, but because it helps you develop a wholesome discipline with yourself; an ability to self-deprecate and avoid the insidiousness of Holier-Than-Thou hubris which all too often, negatively affects relationships.

You can have ten degrees on the wall, drive a Beamer, and wear Cartier watches, but at Bed, you're just another person out to have a good time like anyone else in the world.

Until next Tuesday, thanks for reading ya'll.

-Drew