on ireland and other beautiful things

Oh the beauty we have to behold in this life… It blows me away. 

Here I am sitting in Hotel Chocolat, “the deliciously British chocolate shop,” attempting to overcome writer’s block, which in my case could be more accurately described as a boulder.  I’ve been sitting here for a while now.  Starting and restarting.  Typing and backspacing.  Referring to articles I’ve pinned on how Mark Twain and Barbara Kingsolver overcame this unfortunate occurrence in their day.  One of those “off” days when even all the Queen’s Men might not be able to help me get my act together.  Also, there is a girl in my peripherals who is literally petting and pouting at her boyfriend, which is painfully distracting and throwing off my mojo.

And then, as I’m staring off into the nothingness, the most beautiful sight finds its place in my line of vision.  A little baby boy.  Sitting on the table.  Staring directly into my eyes, with eyes as deep and dark and delicious as the chocolate in the shop.  Naturally, a smile broke across my face.  (There really must be a scientific causal relationship between babies and smiling… If baby, then smile.  Yes.)  And then his chubby cheeks smiled a little bit bigger.  And then I laughed a little bit brighter.  And then he laughed a little bit louder.  And then I sat on my hands to keep myself from scooping up the little nugget and stealing him away forever.

After a few minutes of absolute distraction, smiling and laughing, (and realizing that the fact that I’m effectively flirting with a four-month-old reinforces my grandmother’s advice that I join a singles group), my new little friend was tucked into his pram and rolled out of the shop with his mum.  And I’m back here thinking, isn’t life beautiful?

And then I remember I just spent a weekend in Ireland and I say, yes.  Life is beautiful.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, when all the little children of Kensington were tucked sweetly in their beds, an alarm was ringing in Room 309 of Atlantic House, pulling two not-so-little children of Kensington out of their slumber.  Abs and I said “hello” to 4 AM, “see you later” to London, and began our journey to the Emerald Isle. 

After a few minor setbacks (no one ever said adventure was easy), we were well on our way to part one of our weekend getaway: Belfast.  From the Dublin airport, we hopped on a bus that would take us to the north.  We had every intention of napping away this two-hour ride to rest up for the day ahead, but the rolling hills of Ireland had another plan in mind.  We were both so amazed by the scenery that our noses were practically pressed against the windows the entire ride.  Parts of the ride felt like a cross-country trip across the states, minus the boring ones like Nebraska and Nevada (no offense).  The ride brought me back to the days when my family of six would make the sixteen-hour trek to Colorado, when not even a broken DVD player or a seriously carsick kid (usually me) could keep us from reaching those snow-capped mountains.  We almost always took the scenic route, because if you’re going to be stuck in the car for the better part of a day, you might as well have something beautiful to look at. 

View from the bus window?  I can deal with that.

The bus to Belfast was just that, except shorter and complete with the luxury of stretching my legs without starting WWIII with my sister.  I made a bold attempt to count the cows and sheep as we passed through, but I lost track somewhere in the eighties, with many more barnyard friends in sight.  The hills rolled on and the trees sprouted up all over the place.  Nature, I’ve noticed, has this strange ability to calm the soul.  Especially when that soul has been dwelling in the bustling city for a spell.  It calms the thoughts and cares swirling within, leaving behind the delicate sound of quiet and the peaceful feeling of wonderment.

If you squint your eyes real close to the screen, you can see little white dots speckling the hills.  Hi, sheep.

We arrived in Belfast and took a quick walk to our hostel, soaked in sunlight.  On this walk, we made a quick comparative assessment of our surroundings.  While the boys in England are prettier than the girls, the girls in Ireland are prettier than the boys.  (And I think they all get their eyebrows done at the same place.  Just an observation.)  Now I’m not trying to be judgmental here.  I’m just feeling all the more confident in my decision to study in London.

We found our hostel, jumped for joy when we realized that we had a six-person room to ourselves for the night, and then headed toward Queen’s University, where we had plans to meet up with our friend from Bethel, Trent.  Since Queen’s sprawls throughout much of the city, Belfast had a similar feel to a college town in the States.  I actually felt like I was walking through Madison.  That is, until, we asked for directions from a group of very Irish boys with very Irish accents to match.  Nope.  Definitely not Wisconsin.  We searched high and low until we finally found Trent, and then proceeded to nearly bowl him over with a bear hug.  It’s not every day you meet up with friends from school in a foreign country, okay? 

After a quick lunch, we took a trip to Belfast Castle for a hike!  And it was just marvelous.  I’ve had a fierce craving for a good hike for quite some time now, so this was right up my alley.  The view from the top was just breathtaking – a view of the entire city of Belfast all in one swoop.  The city is nestled on the sparkling coast, with a river running through the center.  To our left were rolling hills and grassy green cliffs peering over the sea, and to our right was the cityscape down below, stretching for miles before disappearing into the foggy sky.  It felt a bit like the Lion King, with Mufasa’s deep bellowing voice in my ear saying, “Look, Simba, everything the light touches is our kingdom.”  More accurately, it was just Trent pointing out notable landmarks to Abby and I.  Close enough.  We even learned a thing or two about Irish history thanks to a class Trent is taking.  (Yes, we study abroad students are indeed doing school here.  Do not be misled.)  One of the most exciting things I learned was that the Titanic was built and launched in Belfast.  Who knew?  Not me.  I could have sworn Jack and Rose set off from NYC...  Clearly my historical recollection and geographical understanding of this event is a tad foggy.  From where we stood, we saw the huge landing strip where the ship was built and the museum that stands as a tribute to this monumental part of history.  Pretty cool, huh?  Also, the wind was so strong I was a teeny bit alarmed I might take to the sky like a kite.  So after a quick Snapchat to all our friends back at school to stir up a little good-natured jealousy, we decided it was time to come down.

On top of the world.

Belfast Castle.  How's that for a backyard view?

After our hike, the three of us ate breakfast for dinner at a cozy local restaurant called Maggie Mays.  Trent threw out some ideas of what we could do after dinner, and Abby and I graciously decided to let our host pick.  And thus, we found ourselves buying tickets to the 6:30 showing of Thor: The Dark World at the movie theatre down the street.  That’s what happens when you let the boy decide for the girls.  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly dying to see this movie, nor was I confident I would even be able to stay awake to see it after a long day of travel.  On the contrary, not only do I report that my eyes remained wide open for all 112 minutes of the movie, but I urge you all to call up the first person you can think of and go see this movie.  (Once you get to the bottom of this page, of course.)  Ladies, I realize that Thor himself is possibly the only reason you might consider buying a ticket.  Same.  Totally acceptable.  What I did not anticipate, however, was what a BOMB movie it was going to be.  It got me all pumped up and ready to watch the next one right that very second.  And of all the cities in which this action-packed flick could take place, Thor just so happened to take place in LONDON.  Can you say synchronicity?  The only other time I have ever been able to interrupt a movie and say, “Hey! I live there!” was while watching the 1996 American Christmas comedy Jingle All The Way, so yes, I was rather thrilled.

We finished off the day by heading back to Maggie Mays for some hot chocolate and good conversation.   It is just so incredibly strange to think that the last time we were all together we were in the quaint and comfortable suburbs of Minnesota, surrounded by all of our best friends.  Five months later, we’re sitting in a restaurant in Northern Ireland, sharing stories about life on our own in big European cities and thinking about how weird it will be to be back in the States in a few short weeks.  Take it from me.  Life has a wild way of taking you to places you had never imagined.

…like to Irish cliff-tops, for example.

Well the day flew by and before we knew it it was time to say “see you later” to Trent and “hello” to the second portion of our journey.  Nothing like an all-out sprint to catch the bus to Dublin to get our blood pumping on a brisk Friday morning!  If travel has taught me anything it would be to hold those plans and expectations loosely, because it is dang hard to keep your act together.  Also, it is always wise to have an ample supply of deodorant on hand, because you never know when being on time will literally cause you to break a sweat.

By the sheer grace of God we made it to our hostel in Dublin, all in one piece, suffering only a lost towel as a casualty.  A group of our friends from London had signed up for a trip to Dublin through our school that weekend, so we decided to make like a box of Girl Scout cookies and tagalong.  (That was both the best and worst pun of my life.  Nonetheless, I hope you slapped your knee like I slapped mine.)  We met on the corner of O’Connell Street and tooled around the city, popping in and out of shops as the rain came and went.  Later on, the whole group had dinner at a pub called O’Shea’s.  (FYI: If you wish to sound Irish, tack an “oh-apostrophe” on to the front of your last name and you are good to go, my friend.)  In our mad dash of a morning, Abby and I only had time for a piece of bread from our hostel (indeed, we missed breakfast) and a protein bar.  So by six o’clock in the evening, “famished” was an understatement. 

After dinner, we covertly joined the school group in a musical pub-crawl.  Now this was not your average pub-crawl, I might add.  I would more accurately describe it as a musical tour through an area of the city called Temple Bar, led by two Irish musicians.  At each of the three pubs on the crawl, these two guys hosted what they call an “acoustic session.”  They played for us traditional Irish music, using guitars, an Irish drum-like contraption, and their own voices, in a small gathering space, with commentary throughout the night to give the audience a greater understanding of the history and inspiration of Irish acoustic music.  Sounds super dorky, I know, but by the time we arrived at the final pub, I was surprised by how entertaining it turned out to be.  The atmosphere was cozy and casual, the musicians were talented and quirky, and the evening was enjoyably Irish.  I was thankful for the chance to experience something that is such an important part of Irish culture, a notion that would be reinforced the following evening.

We made it back to our hostel to find that one of the other guests in our room had arrived while we were out: a sweet and innocent Asian girl, rocking blush pink long johns from head to toe and tapping away on her iPad.  Bless her heart.  Our new roommate, along with the shower situation in general, made me realize what a shaping experience summer camp is.  Camp prepared me for hostels for two reasons: 1. You never know what kind of character might be sleeping in the bunk next to you, and 2. Public showers are a frightening reality that must be dealt with both calmly and rationally.  So thank you, Lake Beauty Bible Camp.  Your pivotal life lessons continue to build character long after my days as a camper. 

On Saturday morning, our lovely new roomie seemed to think it was about time we all greet the day and flipped on the light at the bright hour of eight o’clock, serving as a delightfully unexpected wakeup call.  We got all ready for the day and headed over to meet the rest of the group for a walking tour throughout Dublin.  An animated Irish degree student by the name of Eoin (pronounced Owen) led the tour; Eoin spoke quickly and extensively as we marched all over the city, trying our best to retain the flood of information coming our way.  (I swear, tour guides in Europe are like a walking, talking Wikipedia page on their city of choice.  The amount of knowledge this kid had locked inside his brain was astounding.)  The tour began at Dublin Castle.  Historically known as the city prison, this castle has lasting connotations as the source of all things evil in Dublin.  Coincidentally, the building right next door is the Irish equivalent of the IRS.

See those windows way up high? 3 prisoners escaped…1 died…1 got frostbite…1 survived and started a war. Yikes.

Since we visited more places on this tour than I could possibly remember, I’ll just entertain you with the big ones.  We saw the Project Arts Centre, where some band you’ve probably never heard of got its start.  I think the name was U2?  Directly across the street stands the Clarence Hotel, a hotel that kicked Bono and his band mates out on the street one night many years ago when they had only just begun their career of music-making.  Not one to be bossed around, Bono snapped at the hotel manager on his way out, “Just you wait.  One day I will own this hotel!”  Many years later, I’ll give you one guess as to who owns this lovely establishment.  You guessed it.  Bono.  Stick it to the man, kids.

Well look what we have here… :)

Looking at Dublin from an architectural standpoint, this city is like a teenage girl who can’t quite decide what to wear.  Some buildings are boldly colorful, but some are calmly neutral.  Some buildings are extremely modern, but some are traditional and slightly British.  For example, if you walk down O’Connell Street and look just past an old colonial-looking statue of O’Connell himself, you’ll find something that looks like it belongs in outer space.  The Dublin Spire, which protrudes upwards from O’Connell Street over 120 meters into the sky, pokes through the clouds like a giant stainless steel toothpick.  Even later in the tour, though, we found ourselves in the quad of Trinity College, surrounded by remarkable collegiate buildings that reminded me of the U.S. Capitol.  So while many of the people of Dublin generally look very much alike, the buildings in which they live and work and learn are strikingly dissimilar. 

That skinny silver thing in the back? That would be the Spire.

Trinity College.

The tour concluded in St. Stephen’s Green Park, a lovely grassy area with ponds and birds and gazebos that reminded me of London’s own Kensington Gardens.  At this point of the tour, I’m afraid my brain was so full of information that the remainder of what Eoin told us in the park was lost on me.  What I do remember was the part in the middle of his last spiel when the professional Irish rugby team nonchalantly strolled right past us on their way to their afternoon practice in the park.  That I remember quite well.  Then later that night we watched those exact same guys absolutely crush Samoa on TV while we ate dinner at O’Connell’s Pub.  It’s casual.

We stopped at the oldest pub in Ireland, The Brazen Head.  It's 300 years old… that's older than America!

A quick peek inside...

After dinner, our group of six girls set out to explore the nightlife in Temple Bar, starting with The Temple Bar Pub itself.  This place is renowned for its vivacious atmosphere and live music tradition; it’s absolutely exploding with dancing and live music on any given night of the week.  I even saw a sign on the wall that read, “Guitarist Dave Browne broke the Guinness World Record for longest marathon playing guitar here: 114 hours live / 12th-17th June 2011.”  How cool is that?  We listened to two younger guys play guitar and belt some Mumford & Sons covers.  The main guy was as fantastically talented as his hair was red.  And oh was it red.  How’s that for a surefire sign you’re in Ireland?  The pub was completely packed and the energy was contagious.  Everyone was smiling and moving to the beat.  And the next place we went to was just as loud and lively.  This, I realized, was just what the two guys on the music pub-crawl were getting at.  Music runs through the veins of the city of Dublin, energizing the people like a heart pumping blood.

Live music at the Temple Bar Pub.

We topped off the weekend with a tour of the Guinness Storehouse on Sunday morning.  This factory-slash-museum was fascinating.  The tour takes you step-by-step through the longstanding Irish tradition of brewing Guinness.  The company takes its trade very seriously, treating it as both a science and an art.  I was thoroughly impressed by how much work goes into a single pint of this classic Irish drink.  And for a drink so important, not only do they have a specific method of pouring a pint, but they also have a special way you’re meant to drink it.  When it comes to Guinness, the Irish don’t mess around. 

Outside the Storehouse.

Through the whole tour, as we climbed up and up through the storehouse, I couldn’t help but feel like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, except that this building had professionals brewing alcoholic beverages instead of Oompa Loompas making chocolate.  Minor detail.   The final leg of the tour takes you to the tippy-top of the storehouse, to the Gravity Bar.  The Gravity Bar is surrounded by windows from floor to ceiling on all sides, much like the John Hancock building in Chicago, where you can look out over the whole city of Dublin.  The view is incredible.  It was the perfect place to end the weekend and say “cheers” to a fantastic stay in Ireland.

Whether I’m traveling to new countries, sitting in cafés in London, or simply going through my normal routine, I am stunned by the beauty that surrounds me, time and again.  I don’t always see it, though, and I would bet you’re right there with me on that.  Sometimes our eyes are clouded over with the heavy fog of things to do and worries to entertain.  What a miserable state, isn’t it?  Surrounded by such remarkable things, yet distracted and detained.  To be frank, it’s embarrassing how easily I allow myself to enter that state sometimes.  And then I find myself standing on a cliff in Belfast, looking out over creation in absolute awe of my Creator.  Or standing in a jam-packed pub in Dublin, pulsing to the beat and singing along with a brilliant musician and a crowd of many.  Or even sitting in a café in London, caught up in a happiness contest with the sweetest little baby.  And all of a sudden I consider the beauty that surrounds me and I simply can’t keep the words inside me.

One last look at Dublin.

rise

If you snapped a Polaroid of me right now, shook out the film, and waited just a moment, this would be the scene to emerge within the small square frame: clothes hung out to dry on every possible nook, wet and worn from traveling; the beginnings of a Fashion Marketing Midterm paper in the form of J.Crew company information fanned out across my bed (progress is progress, people); one cold and neglected cup of coffee; and one 5’4” girl choosing to overlook the surrounding chaos and tell some stories.  Stories of beauty, mayhem, and absurdity.  Stories of flying high on cloud nine and stories of making the most of it.  Because that’s what travel is, isn’t it?  You can only plan for so much.  The rest is just the delicate art of response.

After a solid three hours of sleep on Tuesday night, 3:30am pulled my three travel buddies (Caroline, Kayla, and Abby) and I from our slumber for our long-awaited weekend in Italy.  Planes, trains, and automobiles brought us to the glorious land of pizza, pasta, and gelato around noon on Wednesday.  First stop was Roma.  Equipped with expert advice from Andrea (the receptionist at our hostel who was also quite possibly an angel of the Lord) and fueled by authentic Italian pizza, we dove right in to all this famed city has to offer. 

First we ventured out to Pope Francis’ stomping grounds, the Vatican City.  The Vatican is the smallest independently recognized state in the world.  Once you see it, you’ll understand why this dot on the map deserves the level of acknowledgement it receives.  Encased in a huge walled fortress, the Vatican is the home of some of the most breathtaking pieces of art you will ever encounter.  Art covers every inch of the place, from the painted ceilings to the mosaic-tiled floors.  I kept pausing and staring, completely dumbfounded by how long it must have taken the artists to make these pictures a flawless reality for all to see and experience.  Unbelievable. 

Oh you know, just a casual wall in the Vatican.

Michelangelo’s world-renowned masterpiece, the Sistine Chapel, is truly a spectacle.  Its detail and size were beyond what I had imagined.  Let’s be real, I pictured something no bigger than a chalkboard, but instead I came face-to-face with an entire heavenly scene sweeping the walls of a room rivaling the size of my house.  Another famous work of his, the Pietà, is also housed here.  It is a beautiful and tragic sculpture depicting Mary holding the pierced body of Christ.  What’s really amazing is that Michelangelo made this when he was only twenty-five years old.  How’s that for a kick in the pants, all my fellow twenty-somethings? 

Meandering further through the museum, the wings seem to be divided by the type and subject of art they hold.  For example, there’s a hall completely lined with sculptures of important people’s heads.  Then through another doorway you step outside to a garden area of massive, luxury bathtubs.  Not what I was expecting to see, that’s for sure.  There’s even a room filled with sculptures of every kind of animal you could imagine!  It’s like a zoo without the pesky cleanup.  Well played, Vatican.

After weaving through the never-ending mob of tour groups (I swear these people walk like they have nowhere to be for the next three years), we made it outside to St. Peter’s Square.  This is the place you see on TV when the Pope greets the people, typically packed to the gills like a Jonas Brothers concert circa 2008.  It surrounds St. Peter’s Basilica, which is considered one of the holiest sites of the Catholic tradition and possibly the location of the burial of Peter, one of Jesus’ closest disciples.  Regardless of denomination or tradition, this is one beautiful place to be around four in the afternoon, when the sun hasn’t quite set, but hangs low in the sky, peering quietly over the Church.  

St. Peter's Square

After you exit the square, you can continue on past some street vendors and you’ll find Ponte Sant’Angelo, a picturesque bridge that arches over the Tiber River.  It reminded me a lot of Paris actually.  Traveling to new places has reminded me of what a cool thing the international sharing of ideas is.  All the different countries around the globe across the centuries seem to bounce architectural ideas off of each other, and the result always turns out to be something spectacular.

Then we napped.  Hard.  The only deeper sleep would have had me pushing up daisies.  After this much needed timeout, we returned to the streets of Rome for a bite to eat and feasted on spaghetti beneath a Roman sunset.  And we couldn’t just stop there.  Obviously gelato is a completely necessary part of the balanced Italian diet.  When in Rome, you feel me?

Behold. The motherlode.

Day Two began with a trip to the Fontana di Trevi.  I’d like to take this opportunity to commend the producers of the Lizzie McGuire Movie on their very accurate portrayal of this lovely fountain.  All I needed was Miss Ungermeyer squawking nuggets of historical wisdom at me through a headset and I’d be reliving my favorite Disney Channel movie.  I did get an angry whistle blown at me, though.  Pardon me, lady cop, for standing on the edge of the fountain, but a girl needs her candid, Pinterest-worthy photo at the Trevi. 

The one and only... Fontana di Trevi.

Then onward to the next fountain!  The Eternal City seems to have a thing for those.  This one was in the middle of the Piazza Novanna.  This plaza is enclosed on all four sides with restaurants and shops, and the center is humming with life and culture.  On the outskirts are the annoying vendors, the ones that make me want to rip whatever gimmick they happen to be waving in my face right out of their hands and shove it where the sun don’t shine.  Self control.  Take a few steps toward the center, however, and you will find rows and rows of artists with their finest handiwork on display.  There was even a small band of men playing guitars and singing in Italian. And all of this is basking in the sunshine beneath the sparkling fountain.  Seriously, folks, I am not exaggerating.  Rome is that one girl you’re Facebook friends with who looks good in every single picture and from every single angle.  Rome’s a total knockout.

We left the Piazza Novanna in search of the Pantheon and a legendary gelateria nearby that boasts over 150 flavors of gelato.  You can take a guess at which was the higher priority.  Confession: we actually walked right past the Pantheon without realizing what it was.  Quote: “That has to be something important… Wait, was the gelato place on the left or right?”  Eventually we found Della Palma Gelateria, brought our cones of sweet creamy goodness back to the fountain in front of the Pantheon, and laughed at our tourist ignorance.  Clearly our eyes were too glued to our giant map to see the colossal Roman pillars right before our eyes.  Come to think of it, no wonder we were such a hot target for those obnoxious street vendors.

Pantheon.  Yeah I know it's hard to miss.

Last stop on Thursday’s tourist train was the Spanish Steps.  At the forefront, you can find yet another lovely fountain, except people were literally standing in this one for a photo-op.  Interesting approach.  The steps themselves are full of all kinds of people taking hours out of their day to simply relax, which seems to be a very Italian way to pass time.  I could have sat there for hours just soaking up the sun and the sights, so I’m not complaining! 

Unfortunately, our time at the steps was cut short by a cunning street vendor.  First, he handed each of us roses.  What girl turns down a rose?  Then, noticing we were asking someone else to take our picture, this seemingly innocent male offered to take it.  We shrugged and handed him the camera, and he proceeded to take a series of photos as we smiled and laughed at this funny little man.  After handing it back to us, he asked how they turned out and we smiled and thanked him.  But just as quickly as he had offered his help, we realized he was asking for a tip.  As if we were brainwashed, we pulled out our wallets to offer him a euro.  (Physically rolling my eyes at my naïve self right now.  Ugh.)  After we handed him about 3-euro total, he kept pressing us for more money.  This man who had been so kind and friendly two minutes ago was swindling us!  We were indignant.  We threw our roses on the ground for dramatic effect and marched away huffing and puffing.  My friend Caroline growled at him, “You are a terrible person!!”  So we were a bit frazzled and at a loss for snappy comebacks… Whatever. 

Spanish Steps.  I added this photo to spite the little turd of a street vendor.

Don’t worry.  We didn’t let this jerk ruin our day.  We are suburbanite American girls and we are so above that.  Instead, we hopped on the public bus (which is just as sketchy as it sounds) and headed to Trastevere for a night out.  We ate dinner at the cutest Italian restaurant, with delicious food that matched its curb appeal.  Our wallets didn’t even shed a tear because the meal was oh so fiscally responsible.  Double whammy.

For our final day in Rome, we explored the ruins at the Foro Romano and walked around the Coliseum.  Both were a must-see, no doubt.  Sure, they’re basically a bunch of buildings falling apart, but they stand for a civilization that, at the peak of its success, was pretty much running the show here on good ol’ Planet Earth.  All in all, these giant architectural marvels are just all-around fun to explore.  We also visited Il Vittoriano, a stark monument of white marble in honor of the first Italian king.  It looks quite like America’s own White House, actually.  I loved how pronounced it was as the only white building against a backdrop of dusty colored architecture.  Behind Il Vittoriano is Campidoglio where you can catch an impressive view of all the monuments we saw that day.  It’s totally worth the bazillion steps you have to climb to find it.

Our final meal in Rome was picturesque to say the least.  The four of us ate Fettuccine Bolognese at cozy little tables beneath white umbrellas fit for Mary Poppins on a side street near the Trevi Fountain.  There was even a man singing while playing the accordion in the background.  It was cliché in the most wonderful way.  We finished off the evening with gelato (obviously) at the Trevi, relishing the past three incredible days in Rome.  It was perfect.  Too perfect…

They say what goes up must come down.  That phrase is hauntingly fitting of the series of events that would follow as we left the Trevi and headed off to catch the night train to Venice.  (Dun, dun, dunnn.)  First of all, that Bolognese that we all gobbled down so nicely?  I’ll spare you the gory details and just say it did not sit well.  Not what you want as you board a train for the next seven hours of your life.  I paid a whole euro to use a bathroom at the train station that was out of order.  Thumbs-up to the language barrier for preventing me from getting my precious $1.36 back. 

Now about the night train… We really weren’t nervous for it at all.  I personally was psyched to just hop on, take a snooze, and wake up in a new city.  Then we noticed that the rest of the passengers all shared an uncanny resemblance with the male portion of the cast of Jersey Shore and immediately launched into a fervent group prayer.  I wish you could have felt the tension in our enclosed six-person section of the train as we anxiously awaited our two remaining seat partners.  We watched passenger after passenger pass by, wagering whether we’d catch even a wink of sleep tonight.  And I wish you could have seen the wave of relief sweep over each of our tired faces when (praise Jesus) a sweet and harmless elderly couple finally sat down in the remaining two seats. 

The night train could have been a lot worse.  We could’ve been seated next to The Situation, with arms hugging our bags for dear life and eyes wide as saucers all night long.  Despite our ailments, we actually managed to sleep a bit (or at least I did).  Not even a good night’s sleep, however, could have prepared our sweet suburban souls for our arrival in Venice.  At 5:30 in the morning, we quickly got off the train with one goal in sight: get to the hotel and get in our beds.  We approached a cab driver, gave him the address, and waited to hear how much it would cost.  The cab driver, however, shook his head and informed us that our hotel is not actually on the island of Venice and that his cab wouldn’t take us that far.  Seeing the shock and discomfort on our four faces, he calmly tried to make amends.  With broken English and hand signals, he attempted to explain the forty-five minute commute via bus and foot that would eventually take us to our destination.  We thanked him and walked away, having retained about zero direction from that conversation and feeling weighed down by a sick pit in each of our stomachs.  This was not what we signed up for.

We spent the next two hours asking anyone and everyone for help, struggling against the language barrier and our own fearful imaginations.  One very patient bus driver gave us directions and told us which bus to take, and then his buddy drove the other bus and told us when it was our stop.  This guy even let us ride the bus for free.  What a saint.  We were still freaked out, but things were going all right.  We stepped off the bus and walked a few blocks down to Via Colombara, the road our hotel was supposedly on. 

Funny joke.  That street belonged on the set of a horror film.  It was unlit and endless from where we stood, and the wall to our left was covered with words that would make your mother put soap in your mouth.  We made it about ten yards down the road, panicked, and turned around to head back to find a store that might possibly be open at this unreasonable hour.  We found a bakery that was preparing to open in about an hour and begged the cashier boy to help us out.  He looked exactly like Justin Long with the demeanor to match: young, harmless, and a bit of a softy.  Justin, while super nice and sympathetic, did not exactly help a sister out.  After attempting to call a taxi and reiterating, “People don’t use cabs out here,” he directed us back to that same foreboding road.  I even asked him to drive us, if that helps put our desperation in perspective.  He had to decline. 

So we picked ourselves up and onward we trudged, through the rain, down the dark scary road, while dressed for sunshine and seventies and praying that our fathers would somehow magically appear to carry us home to America.  Eventually we made it to the Hotel Villa Dori and burst through the doors with a sigh of relief.  Then came the next hurdle: front desk attendant Maria who speaks “zero Inglese” and looks like Bathilda Bagshot’s twin sister.  (If you’re not a Harry Potter fan, Google her and you will understand why I was crying on the inside.)  As she flipped through her large binder oozing with paperwork, it became clear that poor Maria sincerely needed to be brought up to speed with technology of the 21^st century.  Maria did finally pull through and bring us to our (unheated) room.  We all climbed into bed, curled up in balls, and tried to sleep away one of the most frightening and stressful nights of our lives.

We woke up at noon and surprise!  It’s Kayla’s 21^st birthday.  The girl deserves a medal for enduring all the madness of that night on her own birthday without having a total meltdown.  We were determined to make the best of the situation and celebrate our wonderful friend on her big day.  We made our way back to the actual island of Venice to see the sights.  (Not going to lie, returning to the starting spot of our terrible night felt like walking the plank.  My anxiety levels were through the roof.)  It was still cloudy and rainy, but my oh my that city...  Venice is absolutely charming.  Instead of streets, Venice has canals of teal blue water, speckled with enchanting little boats, and they cover the city like a grid.  Minus the gloomy skies, Venice was just like the pictures.  The cobblestone paths are lined with colorful restaurants, unique boutiques, and sweet bridges that seem to have jumped off the pages of a fairytale.  We regained our energy through a warm meal and some yummy creampuffs from the cutest bakery in Venice.  Things were looking up!

And then, within a matter of fifteen minutes, the day got exponentially brighter.  We snagged a man in a striped shirt, paid our dues, hopped in, and before I knew it I was crossing off Bucket List Item No. 23: Ride in a gondola in Italy.  Now how’s that for a frown turned upside down?  This boat ride was unlike any other I had experienced.  Our gondolier, Ricky, rowed through the narrow canals and we watched with glittering eyes the beautiful scenery unfold around us.  Every now and then we would hear Ricky point out various buildings of importance or the snap of a camera, but other than that all we heard was the soft sound of the paddle greeting the water.  Silence.  It wasn’t until then that I realized that the quiet had become quite foreign to me since arriving in Europe.  While Paris and Rome and London are all such vibrant and exciting cities, they are also rather restless and noisy.  Venice, on the other hand, is the opposite.  Venice felt like those eighteen or so seconds after you turn out the light, whisper goodnight, and wait for your eyelids to drop, savoring the peace and quiet.  A gondola ride on a dreary Saturday in Venice is that fleeting moment of absolute stillness that city-dwellers so deeply covet.

Isn’t it funny how sometimes it is the absolute worst of nights that seem to call forth the absolute best moments in the next day?  Well here’s Venice Highlight No. 2.  For Kayla’s birthday dinner, we got dressed up and went to a modern-looking café on the Grand Canal.  We had the waiter bring out a slice of chocolate cake for the birthday girl and the three of us sang to her loudly (judging by the embarrassed laughter lighting up her face, we knew we’d been successful).  Once the entire restaurant was well aware of our American accents, we delightedly learned that the couple next to us was from California and another older couple was from Minnesota.  (Naturally, the Minnesotans were especially wonderful.)  Running into fellow Americans in foreign places will put a grin on your face in an instant; anyone who’s been abroad can vouch for that!  After the first two couples had approached us, yet another couple a table away told us they were from Massachusetts, which just so happens to be where Caroline and Kayla go to school.  Long story short, their daughter just so happens to be an older friend of Caroline and Kayla’s.  I’m telling you, this world we live in is astonishingly small.  Here we are, about 4000 miles away from home in a random café on the streets of Venice, discovering mutual friends with a random couple two tables down.  Doesn’t that just blow your mind?  As if that wasn’t enough of a shock, this generous couple nonchalantly snagged our bill from our fingertips and paid for our dinner.  Ladies and gentlemen, the way to a poor college student’s heart (especially those who are thousands of miles away from home and family) is undoubtedly food and money.  I say that in the humblest way; there is just something so touching and so selfless about the act of paying for someone’s meal.  So touching, actually, that we all started to cry on the spot.  Clearly our emotions had been running a tad high over the past twenty-four hours… We thanked them furiously (honestly it was all I could do not to bear-hug the both of them and pretend they were my own parents for a quick second) and left the restaurant with hearts full enough to burst.  Those two people had no idea what kind of day we had been through.  They didn’t know us at all, really.  And yet, this random act of kindness that they made to be “no problem at all” made all the difference in our evening.  Humanity at its finest.

By Sunday morning, we were ready to head home to London.  Italy had been unbelievable, but we were drained.  Emotionally, physically, mentally.  Italy, however, wasn’t quite ready to say “Ciao” to these silly girls quite yet.  No, no.  We still had twelve hours until takeoff.  Venice must have been just beside herself at the thought of our departure, though, because she cried on us all day long.  Yes, folks, there was a 100% chance of rain.  All day.  We gave an enthusiastic “arrivederci” to Hotel Villa Dori and got out of there as fast as our worn-out legs could carry us.  Note to self: Venice on a Sunday outside of the tourist season is a complete ghost town.  With the exception of the odd café or tourist shop, everything shuts down.  It’s like the people are hibernating or something.  Since our day was on the opposite end of exciting, I’ll give you the short version. 

1. Purchase bus tickets to Treviso Airport.
2. Purchase 2-euro poncho from vending machine at bus station.
3. Take series of embarrassing poncho pictures.  (Photo documentation is crucial, people.  Our pitiful state must be shared with the world.)
4. Brave the pouring rain with ponchos and backpacks and return to the same café as yesterday.  (We were still reeling from the night before, so we needed a bit of certainty in our lives, okay?)
5.  Camp out for three whole hours until the waiter won’t stop eyeing us with a look that says, “Get lost.  Scram.”
6. Return to same cute bakery from yesterday.  Hit head repeatedly against the closed door marked Chiuso.
7. Find gelateria.  Rejoice.
8. Go home.  Rejoice some more. 

Venice came completely out of leftfield.  We were prepared for a warm and relaxing weekend in a quaint and beautiful place.  While Venice was both beautiful and quaint, the majority of our time there was neither warm nor relaxing.  As we wandered about the city, we kept asking each other where we went wrong.  What could we have done to be better prepared for Venice?  We checked the forecast; it turned out wrong.  We booked a hotel that received great reviews and was in our budget; it was forty-five minutes off the beaten road.  We took the night train to save time and money; we turned up in an alien city in the wee hours of the morning with no clue where to go. 

So aside from planning ahead for transportation from the train station (okay, yes, that’s a biggie, but we can’t all be flawless, now can we?), there was really nothing that we could have done to change the way things panned out.  Instead, we were clearly in for a lesson in rising above the circumstances.  When life throws us curveballs, we have a choice: we can drop to the ground to dodge them or we can step up to the plate and swing with all our might.  Sometimes our circumstances are less than ideal.  Sometimes it’s raining and you’re lost and you’re tired and you’re scared and that absolutely blows.  Believe me.  It’s what you do with those circumstances, though, that really counts.  Rising above is all about mind over matter; it’s about lifting your thoughts outside of a very low present situation and learning to press on and make the most of it.

Here we are.  Making the most of it.

As Ben Rector just sang directly into my ear (and into my heart), “Life is not the mountaintops.  It’s the walking in between.  And I like you walking next to me.”  Traveling is no cakewalk.  It’s not some endless mountaintop view, where you gaze out on the horizon and smile at yourself for being a remarkably flawless travel guru who did it all without a snag.  When all your plans are shot and you’re camped out in a Venetian café for three hours to escape the pouring rain on your last day in Italy, it’s all about the people huddled around your table, making you laugh until you cry.  When you’re walking down a dark road with every possible horror movie playing in your head, it’s all about the people squeezing your hand and walking alongside you.  If you’re on a mountaintop, cherish that moment when things couldn’t be better, when you find yourself walking through Rome and life is as sweet and simple as a romantic comedy.  And if you’re in a valley, you better paint some snowcaps on that sucker and make it as pretty as can be.  In the valleys, you rise.  And blog about it later.