Sky High

It was a warm summer night in Colorado and I was goofing off with my brothers in our backyard.  After an “innocent” back flip with a wet grass landing, I wound up in the Vail Valley Medical Center with a shattered wrist in need of three surgeries, 12 titanium screws and two plates.  The morning after the accident I was supposed to go skydiving with my older brother and sister, but, clearly, could not.  I was devastated.  I was so upset to miss out on such an amazing experience, but am a firm believer in the “everything-happens-for-a-reason” theory, so, c’est la vie.

 

A year and a half later, I found myself strapped to a British man named Dave, dangling out of an nine-seater plane over the Alps, asking me if I’m ready to fall.  And all I can think of in my head is, why did I think this was a good idea again? but I enthusiastically reply with, “I’ve been ready!”

 

I have always had this vision of Switzerland as a crazy, extreme sport country.  Whenever I have heard of people traveling to Europe and canyon-jumping, skiing, skydiving, paragliding, night sledding, anything ridiculous, it’s always in Switzerland.  When a group of us decided the destination for the weekend was Interlaken, I knew I would be skydiving, whether anyone else wanted to go or not.  Luckily, 11 other people were interested in the thrill.  We researched various venues and found a group price at the company Skydive Switzerland.  The company picked up our group from Balmers, our hostel, at noon and we returned at 4:30 pm.  What happened in those four hours was not only life-changing, but also in slow motion.

 

I volunteered to go first, but the company had already divided us into four groups of three, and I was in the fourth group.  Oddly enough, I never found myself truly anxious. It was, however, slightly unnerving when we were told our training session would be less than five minutes, and it turned out to be a quick two.  Really? TWO minutes to teach us how to jump out of a plane from 14,000 feet!? But, again, c’est la vie.  

 

Watching all of my friends suit up was equally as exciting as when I suited up myself.  Just knowing what an incredible experience we were all about to endure was enough to plaster a smile across my face for an entire afternoon – scratch that – weekend.  We were lucky with our weather, a little cloud coverage, but no wind or rain.  The three groups on the ground would stare aimlessly into the sky and wait for the small ants of our friends to begin to emerge from the clouds.  One then four then six!  The came quickly behind one another and the shutes of varying colors floated back down to earth.  Each person was priceless after the landing and all testaments were the same.  Faces windblown, smiles appeared to be propped open, bodies moved like linguine and "that was the best thing I have ever done in my life!" on repeat for the next few minutes.

 

After the plane takes off, you fly for about fifteen minutes, and Dave, my professional partner, was giving me brief historical overviews of the places and mountains we were cruising over.  Finally, when the tour guide stopped, the doors rolled up, and my photographer literally cannon-balled out of the plane, I knew it was my time.   Dave waddled me up to the door, slid my Nikes over the edge and pulled me close.  He reminded me to keep my hands on my suit and my head close to his right shoulder for the fall because he didn’t want me to get whip-lash (thanks).  He also said that when he gave me a double-tap on my shoulder that meant it was time to let my hands and head be free.  Then he casually asked me, “are you ready to fall?” And was I ever.

The initial drop out of the plane is a little blurry, which I am blaming on the flip Dave had us do instead of the normal dive, but other than that, the trip was in slow motion.  I was expecting more of a dramatic drop feeling, similar to the sensation being on a roller coaster when you've just gone over the peak, but my stomach stayed calm throughout the entire time.  A strong rush of air went through my nose and even in the tiny holes of my goggles.  It was practically a wind-less day, but 14,000 feet up the air was strong and cold.  Probably against my better judgment, I decided to not wear the gloves the company, "strongly advised."  I had written "thanks" on the palm of my right hand, and "mom & dad" on my left; I want to take a picture in the air flashing my hands to the camera (see below), so gloves simply were not an option for the afternoon.  Double tap on the left should and my arms were flying free.  We were so high even , the highest peak in the Alps, was not showing.  After a few more seconds, we moved through the clouds and popped out even with the peaks. My eyes could not move fast enough.  Dave pointed out a few ski runs and I wondered if it was where the rest of the group had gone.  And that's when I realized I was in the middle of a life changing experience.  Literally, before jumping out of that plane, I had never experienced that and once I landed I would join a list of people who can say they've done that - dove through the sky from a plane and lived.  I could have been skiing, but I chose to take a risk.  I've been skiing since age 3 and love it, probably my favorite thing to do.  But it's always easier to do the thing you love, the thing that's easy.  That day I decided I was going to experiment with heights, adrenaline and trust.  

Flip out of the plane..

"Thanks Mom & Dad! I Love U!"

Caught in the midst of gawking at the sights, I saw my camera man drop thousands of feet down below me and before I even had time to panic, Dave had pulled out shute and there we stayed.  Although the rush of the free fall was indescribable, the long soaring period was unreal.  It is so quiet you feel so in tune with your surroundings.  I feel like I could almost hear the mountains breathing when the wind would whistle between the peaks.  Dave pointed out more specific things this time, explained some of the meaning behind the Swiss architecture, made some light "death before landing" jokes, and before I knew it we were coming in fast, and I could see my friends waving me on below.  The landing was not nearly as rough as anticipated, and for that I'm thankful! 

Annnd here comes the shute...

See ya...

I guess I always could've gone skydiving back at home, but something about landing in the middle of cornfields just doesn't sound quite as appealing as landing in middle of the Alps.  Nope, definitely not in Kansas anymore, and the more time I spend away, the more I learn that's not necessarily a bad thing.

And that's all she wrote.

Just Enough to Warm Up a Cold Day

Coming off one of the best trips of my life, I imagined it was going to be difficult to come back to reality; to Paderno; to class; to a dorm room.  I arrived back “home” around 1 pm Sunday.  It was a beautiful, blue-sky day, and the campus was literally a ghost town.  No CIMBA students were back yet, the high school boarders weren’t even anywhere in sight.  So, I decided to take a day trip to Crespano – the small town just west of Paderno.

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it there in time for the Sunday morning market, filled with fresh fruits, authentic trinkets, local meats, and more.  I did get to watch them take it down though.  The fruits, although they were not as glamorous as the grocery products I’m accustomed to seeing in the states, looked divine.  Everything looked so organic, so natural.  I love apples, I eat anywhere from five to eight in a week.  A particular vendor saw me gaping at the large Gala apples he had and jokingly whistled at me, so I quickly closed my mouth and looked up at him, just in time to catch one of them he tossed at me.  Embarrassed, I started fumbling through my purse for Euros when he shot me big grin and some warm eyes, implying it was fine and “on him.” 

After spending 10 days with my parents in Budapest, Salzburg and Vienna, I became quite accustom to our after-lunch/pre-dinner stop into a local bakery for a sweet.  We didn’t miss a day (or a dessert). My sweet tooth, which I thought was not capable of expanding any larger than it already was, has been magnified to the nth degree after this vacation. So, naturally, my next move from the closing vendors was to the gelateria.  Due to the hoards of people surrounding the door and the crowded tables inside, I knew the place had to be good, a local hot spot.  There was a wide variety of flavors, but none of them had quite the aesthetic appearance I was anticipating.  Blindly and overwhelmed, I asked for one scoop of nutella and one of banana.  The banana was on top and was that of a camel color, and the nutella appeared to have globs of something floating within.  After my judgmental eyes were done criticizing, I took a bite and quickly scolded myself.  The banana was dark because it was made fresh, that day, from real bananas.  The globs in the nutella were actual scoops of nutella.  It was delicious.  I sat down and took in the scene.

Although it was not the nicest venue I have ever been in, it was clean and it was cozy.  It was furnished with dark, cherry wood, and the pods of families – all generations present – made it all the more warm.  I sat long enough to order another, dare I admit, scoop of gelato and just observed. Groups of friends kept circulating in and out, but the families remained for long periods of time.  There was one family sitting close to me that I watched for a while.  I may not speak Italian, but I could tell they were close, it reminded me of my family.  They were all laughing, sometimes at what appeared to be a joke, and even sometimes at one another.  At first it was just grandparents and four teenagers, just enjoying a chilly Sunday filled with family and chocolate fondue.  Eventually the teens parents arrived and the mood was roaring.

I finally decided it was time to head out when one of the kids asked if I could take they’re picture, I was happy to.  I left with a smile on my face and some Euros well spent.  I walked up and down the old town for a little until it started getting dark.  The town is very simple.  Most the buildings are very "flat." No extravagant entrance, just a welcoming sign and a homey atmosphere.  Even the colors of the exteriors are muted, but a good muted, an old, authentic tone.  The streets are all cobblestone, except a few "new" ones with crooked dashed lining the middle.  The businesses proudly wave the Italian flag out front and churches are simple, standing tall and proudly by themselves.  

I'm not in Kansas anymore, and as cold as I was on that walk home, it was the warmest I'd felt since saying goodbye to my mom and dad in the Vienna airport.  The quaint and friendly town had put a the meaning of a true small town into perspective.  The old values, original architecture, pure and organic foods, and the generations of family and happiness...it was just enough to warm up a cold day.  Kansas is full of small towns, some known for their agriculture, some known for nothing at all.  But this town was like none of those, and none I have ever ventured to before.  I hope to be able to make it to a Sunday market, but if not, at least I have the memories of my day spent there, and joy it brought me in those brief moments are enough to last forever. 

Little Change of Setting, Big Wake Up Call

I love photography.  All kinds, candid, posed, scenic, anything.  However, it was not until my travels this semester that I found my love of buildings.  To me, they have always been just that - buildings. They have rooms that hold people.  Over time, the people change, the furniture changes, the indoor painting changes and there's the occasional remodel or addition, which completely alters a building.  So, for the most part, that is how I viewed cities, just a cluster of meaningless buildings.

After traveling to places like Florence, that literally take your breath away, I have started to observe buildings, not just pass them obliviously.  Florence is known for luring people to sights like The Duomo, the Campanile and the Palazzo Vecchio, all of which have design, detail and history laced into their structure.  After researching cities, venturing to them, exploring the attractions and spending time there, photographing, I have learned the importance and individuality of architecture.

Inside the Palazzo Vecchio

The Duomo

The definition of architecture is "the style in which a building is designed or constructed, especially in regard to a specific period, place or culture."  Now that I truly appreciate the architecture, I see why the word holds so much substance.  As I've been saying, Florence was beautiful, but one of the reasons it holds such a majestic presence is because of the amount of history that resides in the city.  And not only does the city hold historic importance, but the buildings tell stories of their own.  With every craving, with every stone placement, we have some of the most beautiful creations in the world: buildings.

My love and attention to detail ran wild when I went to Belgium this past weekend.  My first stop was to Brussels, Bruxelles to the French, and I was beside myself.  Part of the reason I found such elegance in the city and the construction was because of its European status.  Being the main center of international politics and the capital of the EU, Grand Place was literally humbling to walk through.  Between the buildings trimmed in gold, rooftops lined with graceful statues, and quaint french boutiques and bistros scattered along the perimeter - the city put me in my place.  As a tourist, I felt blessesd to have the opportunity to be there.  As an American, I was proud of my camera lens and used it creatively!

Grand Place

The Markt

Next was Bruges, Brugge as the Dutch say.  Truly, and surprisingly, my favorite city in Europe thus far. The town had some similar grand architecture (ie: Provinciaal Hof and The Church of our Lady), but it was the surrounding buildings and the town itself that swooned me.  All the buildings, pieced together as one unit, but individually painted to differentiate each from the next.  On top of that, the tall, narrow buildings then had unique rooflines, adding character and charm.  The Markt itself, essentially the center of the city, was incredible.  Every direction I looked, I snapped a photo. It was chilly and overcast, and the pictures still look stunning.  And that is what real architecture does.

The best architecture does not have to necessarily be in the best location.  But the best architecture can take any day, and time period, and any specific moment, and change it for an individual.  True architecture moves a person in a way that cannot be described in words - you feel the history, the depth, the beauty, the ambiance, and all together they create this incredible sight.  Something as moving as history with the power of a visual aid (also known as, architecture) has the ability to change someone.  Now, when I go back to the States, I am going to pull into St. Louis, see the Arch, and think about the symbolism and history it holds.  It is the gateway to the West, it is a legacy of Lewis and Clark.  Like I said, it's not the location that matters, it's the story behind it and how it makes you feel.  All I needed was a little change setting and I got a big wake up call.  I'm not in Kansas anymore, and I'm not sure when my next excursion to Europe will be, but I know I will be stopping in Bruges for a few days.

Not Full of Bologna

Culinary experience –

Bologna, Italy: It’s No Bologna.

“Eat your way through Bologna,” I mentioned the phrase in a prior blog, but aside from minimal sites and some decent shopping, that is pretty much all to do in Bologna, so that’s exactly what I did.

I stayed in a wonderful venue, which was really more like a private flat than a hostel, and served complimentary breakfast in the mornings.  I have found that in Europe, people eat more simply at breakfast: always a café and either a croissant or toast, possibly some jam or nutella, and maybe cereal or a yogurt, to accompany your espresso, but that’s about it.  Therefore, by the time lunch rolls around, I am starved, and it is never a good idea for me – or anyone – to search for a restaurant when hungry; 9 out of 10 times you will settle for a place that had you begun your restaurant-hunt earlier, you would not have chosen. 

For being renowned for delicious cuisine, it was terribly hard to find a luscious restaurant Bologna.  Most places I have traveled to thus far have had a surplus of “cafeterias,” which implies it is a self-serve establishment (translation: sub-par food – keep walking).  After too many twists around narrow allies, we finally stumbled across a charming outdoor patio with a sign that read the all too familiar words, “pizzeria,” so naturally decided to park it there for lunch.  Little did we know we were about to plunge into a food-coma of much more than pizza.

In Italy, all the bread served in restaurants is dry.  No other way to describe it, just dried out, sourdough bread.  I find this so ironic because in America, it is at the Italian restaurants where you find the delectable, warm, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth breadbasket.  Well, finally, in Bologna I caught my first break.  The bread slices were shaped as small, half-circles, served warm, and although were still slightly dry, with a sprinkle of olive oil, they were delicious.

Six girls and three breadbaskets later our first courses, antipasti, finally arrived.  My older brother, Tim, has always raved about the dish prosciutto and melon, something that did not exactly sound appetizing to me.   However, his judgment is spot-on with food so I knew I needed to try it.  Best. Decision. Ever.

The mixture of textures was unbeatable.  Sweet, soft and dense meets salty, chewy and lacelike.  Sounds bizarre but I can truly say it was one of the best delicacies I have ever enjoyed, and plan on ordering whenever I see it on the menu.  The finest prosciutto comes from northern and central Italy, so this dish was actually more expensive than my main course.  The freshness of the meat was impeccable and worth every cent.  It is important to know that when prosciutto is made, it is first salted and left alone for two months.  However, since it is salted at the beginning of the process the salt flavor is not overwhelming and tastes very natural.  There were four succulent pieces of honeydew, probably the equivalent of half a melon, with a hearty portion of thin, pink prosciutto.  I have had prosciutto before but never in such a large portion; it was more difficult to slice pieces than I had imagined, but the art of tearing the appropriate amount of meat to pair with the melon was learned quickly.

  

After passing the prosciutto plate around a few times – there some definite food envy at that table – it was time for our main courses.  I ordered meat tortellini with a potato and rosemary sauce.  Potato sauce sounded questionable at first, but I wanted to try a meat tortellini.  I had only previously had cheese or spinach-filled noodles, and, as I promised myself, I would try new foods and experience the culture as the locals do, so I figured I would try it. 

The way the rosemary herbs and the potato flavoring mixed was incredible.  Because a potato sauce is fairly dense and holds little flavor, the rosemary was the perfect accent.  Some times, I even tend to think rosemary is too potent, so the two had a wonderful blend.  It was apparent the noodles were homemade.  The dough was soft and so thin in the center, the pigment and texture of the beef showed through.  Thankfully, there was a small serving of pasta – I have the tendency to eat until my plate is clear, regardless of what my stomach tells me – so I was not terribly full after all was said and done.

But, God forbid I pass up a dessert, so the “full” feeling was just around the corner.  Literally, around the corner in the restaurant was a large gelato case.  I have never seen anything like.  Each flavor was piled into its container and towering close to a foot above it (see picture!). 

Fior de Latte, um, don’t mind if I do.  I had that flavor in Florence for the first time and I have had it at each gelato shop since. And Bologna was no different.  The taste is very rich, but being the “sweets girl” that I am, I have no problem stomaching two scoops…and a cone.  Fior means flour, so the flavor literally translates to flour of milk.  If my research has served me correctly, it is the base for most cream flavors, even the chocolates.  But the starch white is enough to make you plunge your spoon in and the sweet, creamy consistency is truly a cathartic blend in your mouth.

It was the perfect meal and the perfect finish to a blustery Saturday.  “Finish? You had just finished lunch, how is your day finished,” you might be thinking.  But, if I am SO full (yet so content!) that I can’t even muster up the strength to shop anymore, let alone think about walking around, that’s when you know I am really satisfied – and it’s time for a little “siesta.”

Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of the New York Times Best Seller, Eat Pray Love, said it the best when she was traveling through Italy, “the ‘no carb left behind’ trip.” Cheers, cin cin, to that.

Three Strikes, You're Out

Being American, I have a tendency to travel places and assume everyone will: speak my language, wear what I wear, eat how and what I eat, care what I think, etc.  After my first few weeks in Italy, one would assume I would have realized that is not the way the world works, wrong again.   

This weekend I traveled to Bologna, Italy, with some girls.  We were “shocked” with the amount of people and stores that did not speak English, and even more surprised when our train home on Sunday was cancelled and the office merely shrugged their shoulders at us.  Little did we know, there was a strike scheduled for that Sunday until 9 pm.  We had three trains cancelled and missed a bus, it was a long day.

In the states, we have a low tolerance for “inconveniences.”  We expect refunds, notifications and apologies.  We don't think companies have the right to cancel something they have organized (a fundraiser, flight, party, meeting), and they do. Americans want instant gratification, but we don't always deserve it.  Especially in my case this past weekend, when my friends and I were, basically, insulting the Italians culture in the sense that we complain about "not knowing" the trains were cancelled, when they're blaring it [in Italian] over the loudspeaker, printing in the newspaper and posting it online.  We simply do not take the time to learn their language, but we expect them to know ours so they can help us when we need directions, or, in this case, at a train station.  

"No train for nine more hours?!" 

"...I don't speak Italian." 

"What do you mean we can't get our money back?"

American’s can be so illogical in our thinking it is embarrassing.  It's no wonder why people think of Americans as pompous and entitled.  And, not to completely dog on Americans, it is bad with other countries as well, but it is certainly time I learn I need to adapt to the European culture, not the other way around.

Something I have learned, is it's crucial to not only research, but also understand other countries…know the land you live.  That rule goes for places you travel, also.  My friends and I should have checked further into Bologna, that's for sure.  We heard the slogan, "Eat your way through Bologna," and if you could see our cafeteria meals at school, you would know why we jumped on that train without a second look.  But, that being said, that’s our American mindset at best; so often we jump on the first thing we see.  For my first 10-day travel week, which is next week, I am doing research on anything I can.  I am looking up weather, activities, restaurants, sites, customs, politics, economy, literally every thing.  And now, I am even more excited for my trip, and feel confident that I am going to get the best experience I can, because I am prepared for what's ahead of me.  As of Monday, I now have my laptop's homepage set as "ANSA," so I can watch for updates (ie: train strikes!) and keep tabs on current events.

Once and for all, I am making a vow to immerse myself in the cultures.  I am going to practice my Italian phrases, express genuine gratitude to all the locals who gladly help me, and take advantage of all things I am blessed with…remembering the views, savoring every taste, listening to each sound, absorbing every minute.  I am slowly realizing - yet again - I am not in Kansas anymore.