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Who knew that one should check seismic pressures before traveling? Because of the Icelandic volcano that erupted and clogged Europe’s airways with dangerous ash, most air traffic squealed to a halt. I left my home in Vigo on that fateful Thursday to try to go on a weekend vacation to London, via the Madrid airport (I have to fly there from where I live to get almost anywhere else). I arrived in the spilling-over-with-angry-passengers airport with an unusable ticket to London, sin mobile phone, sin laptop. Cursing Icelandic volcanoes, I spun around in circles for a bit.
 Photo from: http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4047/4464501044_1199b0ee03.jpg Of course I didn’t grasp the scope of the problem, and with valid return tickets in hand, I barred my teeth and told myself I’d make it to London. Thus ensued four days of trying to push my way to the British Isles through other means of transportation than air travel. Yes, me and every British person on the continent were fighting for ferry fares and train tickets. I successfully booked two train tickets, one from Madrid to a small town in the south of France, and from said small town to Paris. With the warm blanket of success wrapped around my travel-weary self, I slept easily that night, almost tasting the Earl Grey tea I expected upon impending arrival.
The train to the Hendaya, France, carried me through curvaceous countryside, undulating with ripples of foothills leading to the Pyrenees. Contentedly waiting for my train to Paris, self-assured I could easily catch the Chunnel when I arrived, I overheard some other travelers chatting about the chaos caused by the volcano. Then I heard “Chunnel booked til Tuesday.” This was on Saturday. I bolted to a pay phone and called my parents. Yep, looked pretty much like I’d be stuck in Paris if I boarded the train. I started troubleshooting with my parents: “Ok ... train for Paris to Cannes, ferry from Cannes to Portsmouth, train for Portsmouth to London...” My wonderful mother calmly advised me: “Meg, maybe you should head back to Vigo, hon.” Lip quivering, I agreed. First step, get back to Spain. See full post
Tags: International, Environment, Updates
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There came a time in Beijing when I no longer strolled with my mouth hanging slightly open.
Instead, I whizzed through hutongs on the gravel road, my tires dodging rocks, bricks, and dirt piles, fruit and vegetables and people, but most of all, other bikes and cars. Squeezing between pedestrians and cars took more aggressiveness than skill because freezing like a deer in the headlights would turn one into mincemeat.
 Photo from: http://resources0.news.com.au/images/2008/02/20/va1237292741026/Beijing-trafficReuters-5898689.jpg Merging into traffic, my thumb consistently placed near the bell (I loved using that thing) on my handlebar, I wound around busses and taxis, careful that other bikers passed by safely. I sped up to avoid being sideswiped or cutoff, but when I realized that I was not comfortable trying to fit three bikers between a stopped bus and oncoming vehicles, I chose the sidewalk. See full post
Tags: Culture, International, Urban
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One of the greatest lessons that I have learned in my three years in America is that there exists a tremendous lack of understanding and a generally high rate of hilarious stereotyping on both sides of the globe.
In Nepal many people still think America is all about skyscrapers, beaches, big cars and one-night-stands. America is imaginatively reduced to be made of New York City on one side and Los Angeles on the other; while everything in the middle is a big farm and everyone is a cowboy. Similarly, a surprisingly high number of people in America assume that just because Mt. Everest is in Nepal I have climbed it. And another thing, just because I am from South Asia doesn’t mean I can help you with your math homework or fix your computer.
 Photo from: http://158.130.17.5/~myl/languagelog/archives/SouthAsiaLocalLang.png There are many reasons why ill-informed people think of South Asians in terms of stereotypes, so I will list a few of these stereotypes and try to dispel them . See full post
Tags: International, Religion, Culture
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I can't tell you how many mornings I dreaded rolling out of bed in Beijing because I knew I would have to talk.
My host mom loved to start the day with breakfast and a conversation. She would give me a terrifyingly quick mouthful of Mandarin, watch me struggle, slow down her speech and then patiently listen. Her efforts were in good faith, but they overstressed my groggy brain.
Words would catch in my throat as I would frantically try to muster verbs, subjects, nouns, exclamations—anything I could use to string together a sentence, half a sentence, or a meaningful cluster of phrases. I even searched the nearly bare dining room for objects that matched what I wanted to say. See full post
Tags: Entertainment, International, Language, Culture
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Mercat de la Boqueria—or the Boqueria Market in Barcelona is a lively, modern food market, purposely situated off of la Rambla, a heavily-pedestrian-travelled road, to bring in the most clientele. I set out early in the morning (relatively speaking, given “Spanish time,” getting up at 8 am is quite early), to watch the goings-on before the market becomes inundated with pesky tourists.
 Photo submitted by: Megan Burik I realize that I myself am a tourist, but I have this strange inclination to not consider myself one. Perhaps this is because I currently boast a Spanish address, or speak a little of the language, or am not nearly as rude as some I’ve seen. Despite my foreign nationality, La Boqueria rewarded my early arrival with observations only available in the morning.
I arrived at the market. The energy, the zest—the vendors readying their wares. Cutting mushrooms, slicing fat off large slabs of meat. Orders taken on tiny notepads as vendors yell quantities to men with carts. There is an art to the assortment of fruit—the colors like rainbows of juice. Peel, press-labeling the meat, cheese in size, in price, in marketability. Stories traded by locals with smiling mouths of satisfaction. Keepers smoke while they wipe a display case clean—sweeping the walkway around the shop. Then I noticed the wide-eyed (like always) tourists, eyes spread to try to take in the array of colors, people. See full post
Tags: International, Food and Drink, Culture
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 Photo from: http://norhymeorreason.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/umbrella Typhoon season doesn’t happen in Beijing, it happens in Shanghai, a night train ride away. Beijing is hot and sticky. Beijingers hide under their shade umbrellas. Beijing skin toasts under the morning sun on good days, and pores fill with dirty air on not-so-good days. Beijing walkers stare at bikers with envy as their speed circulates a light breeze. We’re blinded by the skyscrapers, teased by billboards of oceanside provinces miles away.
When it rains, we are grateful.
I was relieved by the light drizzle that had dampened the city as I began my 20 minute trek home for work. The water barely grazed my arms as I stopped at an ice cream stand to buy a treat for the walk. But as I crossed the intersection and took note of the locals in raincoats pedaling a bit faster, the rain started to pick up. By the time I had nearly finished my Magnum, the pelting rain forced me under an overhang only two blocks away from where I began walking. My glasses were smudged and my dress had begun to stick uncomfortably to my body as I plotted my next move.
I was waiting a week for a rain like this, so I decided to brave the weather, and slosh through the flowing water that now covered the streets.
But the Chinese won’t let a foreigner melt in the rain. It wasn’t long before I met a guy who had enough pity for me and offered me his umbrella as we were crossing the street. I crouched under the safe haven as the much shorter Asian dressed casually in flip-flops, a black jacket, skinny jeans, and a baseball cap led the way to the stairwell where soaked bikers had already began to line up. My Chinese wasn't fluent, so my umbrella carrier and I made only brief attempts to get to know more about each other under the bridge. I discovered he was around my age and had dropped out of college to be a singer. He learned that I was American (I love America! he said) and that I was teaching English. We mostly stood in silence, occasionally glancing at each other, anxiously waiting for the rain to stop, and taking turns holding the rainbow-colored umbrella.
Soon, his brother and girlfriend showed up with another umbrella and they accompanied me another block to my street corner. I insisted on departing at this point. “We want your friendship!” they said warmly as we said our goodbyes and parted ways. I continued the rest of the way alone and once again without cover while the rain dropped to a slow drizzle. Careful not to slip on the treacherous, water-coated concrete, I finally made it home and was greeted by a surprised, but laughing, host mom.
In the midst of explaining my earlier adventures to her, she made a motion that I had something on my face. I quickly went to a mirror and discovered that my mouth was painted with remnants of the chocolate ice cream. I looked like a drowned rat that just dug through the leftovers of someone's picnic.
And thus, I suppose, first impressions aren't always the right ones.
See full post
Tags: International, Food and Drink, Environment, Culture
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Before I spent the majority of my spring break in Andalucía, I held the stereotypical views of the southern region of Spain: cities of blanch white walls capped by terracotta roofs, with warm sun overhead and warm people within—where the British take their holidays. These stereotypes exist for a reason.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik While I did visit Seville, Spain during my vacation, I left my heart in Granada. A city rich in history stands in the shadow of the impressive hilltop remains of the Moorish fortress, La Alhambra. Like an ever-present guardian, La Alhambra bears witness to all the mixings and goings-on in Granada.
The history of La Alhambra spreads across centuries, as did its construction. In the 9th century, the first inhabitants built a small citadel, followed by the more fortified palaces of the Nasrid Dynasty in the 14th century. In 1492, Spanish troops overwhelmed the Moors and re-conquered the area for Spain. Legend has it that Boabdil, the last sultan of Granada, cried whilst trudging away from his surrendered land. His mother scolded him, saying “Don’t cry like a woman over what you couldn’t defend like a man.” See full post
Tags: Nature, International
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Truman alumnus Mark Couch spoke last Wednesday about teaching English in China. Couch taught English as a foreign language in rural Guangdong Province and plans to return to China to continue teaching.
As someone who’s been there and done that, kudos to him!
 Photo from: http://www.women-on-the-road.com/image-files/teaching-english-in-china-01.jpg I’m planning to return to China this summer to teach English to Beijingers, and I greatly look forward to the task. Teaching kids isn’t an easy job, but with a stack of UNO cards, a vocabulary list, some patience and enthusiasm, I think I fare well. See full post
Tags: International, Language, Education
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“In California, my mother had raised me mostly alone. We didn't have many things, but she is warm and we were happy. We moved a lot. We rented. My father was rich and renowned, and later, as I got to know him, went on vacations with him, and then lived with him for a few years, I saw another, more glamorous world. The two sides didn't mix, and I missed one when I had the other. When I left Marco he gave me a gift: a small glass snail. I think it meant that I'd had my home all along: Snails carry
their home with them wherever they go." - Lisa Brennan-Jobs, writer, Apple CEO Steve Job's daughter.
 Photo from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/vil_sandi/4437550877/sizes/l/ There is a saying from someone, with the idea: by reading, you don't really find new stories, places and people, instead you find yourself. As I read Lisa's, I found myself. I don't have a broken family like she did, but I have two sides that don't mix. I miss one when I have the other.
I used to live with my family back home in Vietnam. My parents are both educators. Our family was not wealthy; which means that I didn't get toys, travels, or anything as the reward for any of my good schoolwork. Honestly, that is a bad thing – I was a curious kid (and I will always be). Instead, my father would reward me by taking me to used-book shops or street-side book sales on Sunday evenings, once a month. He would guide and let me choose the books that I liked to have. Coming back home with a stack of old books, I felt like nothing even comes close to that experience in this world. I would sit at home and read all of them during the following weeks. See full post
Tags: International, Shopping and Lodging
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Catching a whiff of spontaneity in the air, I joined a friend on a trip to Morocco. My ignorance about the country was only surpassed by my excitement to explore it, and packing my most conservative clothing as advised by a travel blog, I hopped on a plane.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik We went to Marrakesh, the largest city in Morocco. The city is essentially divided into the old section and the new section, the old section inside the Medina and the new section radiates from the Medina. Surrounded by walls meant to fortify the city against ancient enemies, the Medina houses the heart of Marrakesh-- teeming with interlocking veins of meandering alleys. Vendors haggle with visitors over the tiniest trinkets to intricately woven rugs beneath the shadow of the Koutoubia Mosque tower. The air is dank with scents of life, mixing smells of everything from the tender lamb rotating on skewers to the donkey droppings in the streets. Above the playing of mock snake-charmers, the haunting intervals of the call to prayer sound throughout the city several times a day, beckoning to the followers of Allah.
 Photo provided by: Megan Burik My enjoyment of the vivacity of the open markets and gypsy musicians was only overshadowed in a small way by my observations about Moroccan women. I cannot say for certain what stance involving women is official in Morocco, I can only share my brief observations. Most of the native women, especially the older women, dressed in long, loose clothing. Some of the younger women appeared more “Westernized” (whatever that term is supposed to mean) and dressed in jeans. See full post
Tags: Clothing, International, Language, Religion, Culture
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