run on sentences about european capital cities

Vienna 

Elaborate white facades frost the decadent viennese palaces and their trellis encircled gardens, tempting visitors and locals alike to indulge in spiced mulled wine, sweet tulip beds and endless, palate-cleansing fields of grass meant for picnicking, sun-basking, and silly games of duck-duck-goose. 

Easter Market Count: 2

Mulled Wine Mugs Consumed: 3

Budapest 

From her seat on the hill, Buda holds Pest’s youthful glow in her panorama view; street lights, club strobes and late night eats’ neon signs entice travelers over bridges, into Pest’s falafel filled dives and WWII ruin bars. As siblings do, Pest gazes enviously at her castle-crowned sister, coveting Buda’s pious church towers, fortress walls, and whispering, winding streets. Meanwhile, the sloping chains of Széchenyi bridge lock Budapest together, unifying their millennia of stories and linking their future history as a vibrant hub of Central Europe.

Easter Market Count: 6

Mulled Wine Mugs Consumed: 9

 Prague 

Old town Prague is the teapot of a china set, the centerpiece of the grand multi-district city. Exquisite cobblestone patterns coat Prague’s gently sloping streets, drawing visitors to meander the castle’s vibrant green grounds, ponder miscellaneous statues and marvel sky reaching gothic structures. If Prague were a sentence, she would run-on, dripping with archiac adjectives and chthonic 

clauses, each delightful detail jumping from the readers tongue like skipping feet on twisted pathways, towards the towering castle conclusion that life truly can be a fairytale, if we imagine it to be.

Easter Market Count: 4

Mulled Wine Mugs Consumed: 6

Ljubljana

Bring Downtown Disney into your mind’s eye, resize the buildings back to regular dimensions, replace Mickey Mouse with a bright green dragon, and draw a river down through the street’s center: you have a basic image of Ljubljana, the capital city of Slovenia. Take a walk down that river, past the modern stores tucked inconspicously into old, pastel-painted buildings, and grab some strawberries at the daily farmers’ market down the river from town hall. Strawberry seeds stuck in your teeth, hop on bikes and ride your own amusement to central park, then go play in the old Yugoslav barracks-turned-art commune, filled with intense graffiti, monster sculptures and mis-matched steel structures meant for climbing. And so you’ll have spent a marvelous day in sLOVEnia.

Easter Market  Count: 1

Mulled Wine Mugs Consumed: 0 (unfortunately)

love from my bedroom floor, in the middle of a mess of clothes packing for tomorrow's flight to athens,

shonabell

dear pleasanton north rotary club

It’s been a while since i’ve sat down at my computer, stared at my travel journal, and tried to decide which story to share. It’s an interesting process, attempting to decipher my own scribbles, sketches, and anecdotes, sorting through which ones are appropriate to share with the wider audience of Facebook and beyond. So, here's a note I've been meaning to share.

Written on my flight back from my trip to see Clemence and her family in France:

Dear Pleasanton North Rotary,

Thank you.

Thank you for listening to me when I asked you to send me to abroad. 

Thank you for the opportunity to learn Spanish, which I keep up in small conversations with friends here and there and in my binge-watching of Spanish TV on Netflix (highly recommend ‘The Grand Hotel’ for anyone interested in a Spanish take on Downton Abbey). 

Thank you for the opportunity to learn to love foods like octopus salad, grilled squid and fried sardines. 

Thank you for introducing me to Europe, a place that I oftentimes feel more comfortable in than I do at home. 

Thank you for sending me to a place where I got lost (frequently) on public transportation; I now know that I will always manage find my way with a bit of creativity and by having no shame in asking locals for directions. 

Thank you for the opportunity to learn that it’s better to make up a word than be too shy to practice the language, a lesson which I put to use on a daily basis here in Croatia (much to many of my baristas’ amusement). 

Thank you, more than anything, for the family that you have created. Since you began the program in 2012, my family has added countless members. Not just my host families or the students that have come to live at the ‘Purple Door Ranch,’ but also the families of those students that my parents hosted, and the wonderful exchange students of District 5170. Two weeks ago, I sent an out-of-the-blue message to Clem, who stayed with my family a year or so ago, asking if I could come visit her in France on my spare weekend. Without hesitation, she send me an enthusiastic “OUI” and we quickly made plans for my trip. Keep in mind, I’d only spent a few afternoons with Clem because I was at school for most of the time that she spent with my family, and I’d never met her parents or little brother who had graciously invited me into their home. Also, my middle school french was more than a bit rusty, and I’d been warned that her family spoke minimal English (though I soon learned that they all spoke very well and were just shy about it!). So, off I went. And it was wonderful. A weekend full of cheese, wine, mountains, lakes, castles, and french jokes followed. Having spent weeks living alone with 20-something year olds, being with a real family again was refreshing and, simply, wonderful. So I guess what I’ve been wanting to say is: thank you. Thank you, PNR, for the family I now have around the world.

Love from somewhere in the sky above Europe,

Shonabell

hotel belvedere

It started as a simple trip to the beach, a ways walk out of town. We meandered, lounged, skipped rocks and enjoyed the sunshine and crystal blue waters. Restlessness hit us in gaggles, and over the course of an hour the large group slowly migrated from the rocky beach, along a windy cliff path to the scraggly hotel concrete and abandoned restaurant perches that dot that section of coastline. From there, a few of us jumped at the chance to explore one of Dubrovnik’s greatest war relics — the Hotel Belvedere. 

Strengthened by curiosity and comforted that our friend, Marko, would serve as our local guide, we began climbing the terrace steps towards the hotel’s lower levels. Passing by magnificent tiles of long-dry swimming pools and brightly colored graffiti still damp from application, we enjoyed our own private re-construction of what Belvedere might have, or could, look like. We ran into a few, quite literal, roadblocks where the city had filled the entrances Marko and his friends had used as children. Undeterred from our adventure, we made our way up pathways, windowsills, trees and door frames until finally managing to gain entrance to one of the hotel’s lower bedroom hallways. 

The soft carpet beneath my feet sharply contrasted with the harsh cracks in the walls, broken china, and vacant rooms of Hotel Belvedere. Simple, out of fashion wallpaper peeled from the hallways as if trying to escape this long-forgotten tourist hotspot. I lost myself in imagining how many men, women, children -- dressed for a dip in the pool and then afternoon tea -- ran their hands along these now faded walls. And as I watched my step for fear of broken glass or even gaping holes, I wondered how many times a young woman my age peered down at her own feet, trying not to trip in her slightly too high heels in this slightly too fancy hotel, on her way to an expensive dinner with a guy she’d like to impress with her (as of yet unperfected) ladylike charm. 

Perhaps I’m getting a tad bit carried away in my historical romance, as the hotel itself was only constructed in the 1970s, and my mom and her friend Shona most likely sailed, swam, or walked right past this hotel on their travels here in 1987. Or perhaps they were the young women eating nicely in the extravagant hotel restaurant… though I doubt it from my mom’s tales of meals of baguettes, cheese and apples on the cheap. It was only a few years later, in 1991, the the hotel was partially destroyed in the bombing of Dubrovnik, only to be occupied by Yugoslav soldiers and later lived in by refugees and looted by locals in the years since.

We climbed stairs, stairs, more stairs, discovered hallways full of bathtubs, tiptoed through bedrooms scattered with collected china, and incurred a few too many frights incited by our own reflections in unsuspected bathroom mirrors. Eventually, we made our way into the hotel’s decadent restaurant, with a gorgeous tile centerpiece still intact and a concrete spiral staircase that had seen better days. The view, same as ever, blazed into the restaurant though what were once walls of glass and now remain as open windows to the sea 100 feet below. Almost at the highest point, we were determined to make it to the hotel’s roadside entrance, though it took a pretty long jump and some intense bushwhacking (by which I mean the bushes whacked us, not the other way around), to reach the summit. As always, breathtaking views of the Adriatic and Lokrum island greeted us from our elevated perspective. Satisfied and exhausted, we meandered back down the path to the beach singing classic disney songs about how “everybody wants to be a [dubrovnik] cat” (ha).

love from dubrovnik,

shonabell

bumpy bus rides to far off places

I’m jolted awake as the bus hits a bump in the windy mountain road. My eyes take a moment to adjust, and I’m pleasantly surprised that we’ve escaped the snowcapped, ragged cliffs and full forests of frozen Sarajevo. The sun shines brightly outside my window, bringing a sparkle to the copper saturated, bright green rivers that meander through the region’s towering Dinaric Alps. 

The bus is heating up in the sun, and I’m sleepy enough that the bus seat feels analogous to my bed — both a bit stiff, a few lumps here and there, but overall welcoming after a long stint of adventure. 

And wow, what an adventure this weekend was.

We set off for Mostar early Saturday morning, packs full of clothes, snacks and knickknacks on our backs down the endless stairs to the bus stop. Full of excitement, we chatted through the twisting Adriatic coast, through three border check points, off the bus and through the rain to Mostar’s Stari Most (old bridge), built by the Ottomans in the 16th century. After a guided tour through Mostar’s cobble stone streets, we hopped back in the bus towards Blagaj, a smaller town about twenty minutes from Mostar. 

In Blagaj, we explored a natural spring erupting from the depths of a cave, set deep in the shadow of a towering mountain face. Ditching our mucky shoes and donning headscarves, my travel companions and I walked through the ancient mosque that sits atop the spring, marveling at the bright carpeted floors, stained glass ceilings, and whitewashed walls. 

From Blagaj, eight of us hired a private driver to take us through the snowstormy mountains to Sarajevo. Our airbnb host welcomed us into our penthouse suite with glasses of homemade rakija, the local liquor (a type of fruit brandy, in this case, pear). Truly located in the center of Sarajevo, our apartment was just down the street from the Eternal Flame, a memorial of the recent wars, and a ten minute walk from the old Ottoman village that forms the heart of the city. 

 

We spent Sunday tasting sticky sweet baklava, learning to properly pour teacups of bitter Turkish coffee, overindulging on bright tapestries and shiny copper treasures, and picking up souvenirs for our loved ones back home. 

And now, here I am, spending my Monday on this bus, writing to you.

love from somewhere near the Bosnian-Herzegovinian & Croatian border,

shonabell

sunglasses & wishing wells

Stradun is blinding today. The marble main street and gleaming castle walls intensify the sunshine, making sunglasses a staple of every old town walk. I’m perched on the ground outside of Sponza Palace, lounging against one of the pillars and watching locals and tourists pass by. Julia and I grabbed lunch from the bakery a little ways down the street and are munching our way through prosciutto & cheese baguettes. There’s still a chill in the air, especially within the city walls, so our spot in the sun couldn’t be a more perfect place to spend the lunch hour between classes. 

entrance to the monastery/university

Our university, Libertas Dubrovnik International University, is located just around the corner from Stradun, the main street, in an old Dominican monastery (which we still share with the monks who live there today). Classes themselves take place in the third floor of the monastery, where diplomats to the Republic of Dubrovnik (otherwise known as Ragusa) used to stay when conducting official state business. Not a bad place to be studying diplomacy and international relations. Oh, and did I mention the gorgeous courtyard that our school shares with the monks, visible from our classroom windows and the best spot for quiet study on a sunny day? There’s even an old well, perfect for making wishes before tough midterms and final exams. 

our shared courtyard (and well)

monastery bell tower

Classes at Libertas run in slightly haphazard schedules, often on the whim/demanding schedule of the professors, most of whom travel from abroad for a few weeks at a time to lead us through the material. Right now, for example, I’m about to finish the second week of my International Peace & Security course, taught by a professor from Zagreb. We’ll take a midterm early next week, then have two weeks off until a different professor, with slightly different expertise, comes to finish the Peace and Security curriculum. In the meantime, I’m taking the Rise and Fall of Yugoslavia, and the Art of Diplomacy, both with an amazing teacher who, rumor has it, was a diplomat for Montenegro a few years ago. Later in the semester, Negotiations & Conflict Resolution and Current Issues in International Affairs will begin, one of which is taught by a former Scottish prime minister. 

en route to class

Speaking of classes, I should get back to studying the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations for my quiz tomorrow.

love from dubrovnik,

shonabell

its raining cats and dogs

After less than a full night’s sleep, I’m sitting crosslegged on my matchstick box bed as my roommate struggles to find a place between asleep and awake. Jasmine green tea steams from a yellow mug on the already cluttered bedside table, and I’m peering out the window to see what the weather has in store for us today (google says sunny with a chance of rain). 

My calves and thighs ache from multiple journeys up and down the 200+ steps that connect our apartment to old town, but the daily workout is well worth the panoramic view of old town and the sea from our balconies, windows, and rooftop terrace. 

I can hear the boys next door drinking coffee on their porch, and the bells from one of the old town churches mean it’s time to get up. Let the fight for hot shower water begin…

I’ll pull myself back out of bed in a few minutes, flip on the kettle again and put some bread in the panini grill that takes hours to toast. So far, breakfasts have consisted of avocado toast, green tea, and oranges that are half the size of my head. All while overlooking the red rooftops of old city, of course.

Old city is easy to fall in love with. Empty of the summertime tourists, Dubrovnik’s marble streets glisten white in the sunshine, and are a slippery death traps on rainy days. I'm happy to report that haven’t fallen yet (knocks on wood), thank goodness for practical shoes. I don’t know how the locals survive in their sky high heels, but somehow they manage look perfectly composed rain or shine.

We’ll walk the city walls today, and I’m expecting to see as many local cats and dogs as old rooftops and waves against the shore. Pets are, apparently, uncommon in Dubrovnik, and the city instead is home to hundreds (thousands?) of animals who, fed and loved by locals, run the place like kings and queens. Plus, the cat that rules our closest flight of steps doesn’t laugh when I attempt to practice my beginner’s Croatian, so she’s currently my favorite local.

Time to join the rest of the world — doviđenja (goodbye for now)

love from dubrovnik

shonabell

Just Another Awfully Big Adventure

The last few days seem to have gone by in a blur: the flights, a few nights in Boston, then back home to Colby.

I'm not quite sure what to write. I've had a few messages from friends and family reminding me that I need to "finish" my blog cycle from Saint Petersburg. I suppose they're right: I should let everyone know that I'm back and not to expect many posts in the near future. I guess I could write a blog summing up my experience and discussing the many things I've learned. Maybe I could talk about the many things I'll miss from Russia - the people, the Neva, the food, the history - it would be a long list, I'm sure.

But I sit here typing at my keyboard, and I feel that I'm at a beginning, not an ending. I'm not ready to say goodbye to Saint Petersburg, to travel or to adventure, nor am I sad to be back at Colby and "normality." I'm struggling to "finish" my story because I feel that it is only beginning. Saint Petersburg was the first stop of many on the path that I'm walking. My journey has not stopped, only turned a corner, and I'm smiling as I look forward to the adventures to come.

So, for those of you that read this every time I click the publish button: I'm back on US soil and getting ready for classes to begin tomorrow morning. I'm thrilled to be back at a place that feels like home, with friends who have already begun to feel like family. I'm excited for tomorrow, and the day after that; who knows what my plans will be in a few months time. I have so many decisions to make, so many activities to pencil into the calendar, so much uncertainty in what the future will bring. In that uncertainty I see freedom: freedom to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, freedom to meet new people and try new things, freedom to explore new places, freedom to be myself, and freedom to be happy.

Here I go, off on another awfully big adventure.

Love from Colby,
Shonabell

Санкт-Петербург

Санкт-Петербург is the blue plastic covering that I tuck around my boots upon entering the gymnasium for class. The crinkle of my each and every step defines me as an outsider to the students and professors whom I pass in the hall.

Санкт-Петербург is the little old lady that sits in each museum room, her official badge granting her the power to frown at and scold visitors. She terrifies foreigners and natives alike with her ominous glare: "no photos! hands off! SHUSH!" Perhaps the Librarian from the Black Lagoon has come to life and taken over Russia's museums.

Санкт-Петербург is the ice-plastered street that holds me to a slow pace everywhere I go. I don't dare look around at my surroundings lest the ice attack and send me sprawling to the ground. The slip and slide games of my youth come to haunt each step I take. I'm engaged in an endless fight against the ground, and my many bruises prove the unavoidable strength of gravity.

Санкт-Петербург is lying facedown on my floral bedspread, an Egyptian-themed pillow tucked beneath my stomach and a pen held tight in my hand. Words fly from my mind onto the pages of my journal, and I collect memories from the day in cases of letters and jars of paper.

Санкт-Петербург is learning and practicing the words "зеленый чай, пожалуйста" (green tea, please) during each cafe and restaurant visit. The drink has become an integral part of my Russian experience; I haven't gone a day without holding a steaming teacup in my hand.

Санкт-Петербург is getting to know Victoria; sprawling out on my brown plaid blanket, eating pastries, drinking tea, and chatting for hours about family, literature, boys, language, tattoos, travel, Shakespeare, and our futures. Superficially we have little in common: her brown curly hair and dancer frame contrasts sharply with my straight light locks and full body; dig a little deeper and we are similar at heart, romantics the both of us.

Санкт-Петербург is people-watching on the metro escalator: the hats and gloves and fur are fun, but I find the expressions fascinating. I ponder the destination of the smiling elderly gentleman with a bouquet of flowers in his hand; I wonder what would bring a smile to the dour-faced girl; I blush when I make awkward eye contact with a stranger from across the aisle.

Санкт-Петербург is the pigeon that always refuses to move out of my path. Dear pigeon: I understand that you live in a city full of people and you're probably used to humans by now, but I'd really rather not trip on you (the ice sends me to the ground often enough!). So if you could please, please, not walk right in front of me and decide to hang out by my feet, that would be much appreciated. Sincerely, Girl Who Would Rather Not Step On You.

Санкт-Петербург is missing the friends and family I've left behind, and trying to balance emails, photos, blogs, and messages with face to face interactions and city exploration. It's feeling sad that I'm not with those that I love, feeling glad to have such wonderful support back home, feeling lucky to go to a college I'm looking forward to returning to, and feeling excited to see new and old friends so very soon.

Love from Санкт-Петербург,
Shonabell

Midnight Train to Moscow

I squeezed through a tiny hallway, stepping into the cramped room that was to be my home for the next nine hours. Quickly shoving my bag below the benches and kicking my shoes off,  I hopped up on the table in order to let Ling, Faiyaz, and Alan into the small space with me. We bumped around while trying sort out everyone's personal items. Coats here, bags there, shoes under there: we made a mess of the place within seconds of entering. It was already half past midnight and we'd just gotten aboard. Still, sleep was pushed aside in favor of excitement for our first overnight train experience. Faiyaz and I had clambered up to the top bunks, where we clumsily attempted to make the beds. After about fifteen minutes of fighting with the mattress, balancing between bunks, and standing on the table below, my bed was hospitable. Now Alan and Ling had the floor to make their beds, and a while later everyone was tucked into their respective bunk.

The train started moving, and I laid on my stomach, my head on my arms, watching St. Petersburg disappear from the window. Ling plugged her phone into a speaker and played soothing music to accompany the start of our journey, and we talked and laughed in anticipation of Moscow. Stomachs growled and I pulled out the hazelnut wafers I'd thrown into my bag at the last minute. Alan was delighted by them and (much to my amusement) made continuous comments on their deliciousness after each bite.

Eventually, the lull of the train pulled us all into sleep. The car seemed to sashay its way along the tracks, moving gently from side to side while maintaining a perpetual forward motion. All too soon we arrived in Moscow; our eyes may have been puffy from the journey, our bodies sore from the cots, but our minds were open to the experiences and sights that awaited us. We gathered our things, tied our shoes, threw on hats and scarves and gloves and coats (did I mention that it's cold in Russia?), and made our way into the city.

Love from Saint Petersburg,
Shonabell

The City and the Night

The city itself is a lot more rundown than I would have hoped; plaster and paint peel from even some of the more magnificent palaces and residences. It reminds me of Lisbon in that way, as if the city has been slightly forgotten over the decades (a sentiment that makes sense in the context of Russian history). By day the beautiful architecture and bright colors of the many older structures are overshadowed by tacky electric signs and modern advertisements. The present and past fight for space in the packed city streets, a war which spills blood in the form of ruined views and chronological incongruence. 

The sun steps down at 4 o'clock, curtseying slowly to the sky and vanishing behind the horizon. Dusk dances, setting the city aglow in a short pas de deux. White and blue streaks illuminate previously forgotten corners of the city's French Baroque architecture. Eliminating all semblance of color, Dusk brings light and shadow to every traveler's eye. Her feet flitter across the rooftops, swirling the spires in her fleeting glow. The clock ticks at Небский проспект, ushering fur-coated wayfarers to cover as Night takes the stage. Feet scuttle in the metro, up steps and down snow covered pathways; doors close in Night's face as the people of St. Petersburg reject her arrival. 

Though many seek cover from her darkness, Night is kind to her folk; she envelopes them in calm, inviting them home for tea and time with family. The city sparkles. Peeling facades are quickly forgotten as my eyes wander along the St. Petersburg skyline. Some buildings are entirely covered in luminous designs, and the city feels magical. The snow and twinkle lights forge a layer of brilliance across the city streets; all at once I can see where Russian folklore makes its presence in this modern European city. My skin tingles with cold and wonder. Fur coats push past me; everyone is hurrying home. But I walk slowly, mesmerized by the lights, the chill, and the enchantress that is Санкт-Петербург.

Love from St. Petersburg,
Shonabell

Thoughts on Russian Christmas

My head is more often filled with random narrative phrases than not; when I walk through a city, sit and have tea with friends, even when I'm trying to sleep, I paint the scene with words in my head. Certain phrases will stick longer than others, and those that I like most end up either in my journal and/or (now that I'm posting again) on this blog. Sometimes I narrate my life in third person, other times I work out metaphors to represent the landscape, and occasionally I'll map out words to describe a world completely irrelevant to the one I live.  It's a rare moment that leaves me wordless, but that's exactly what happened at the Russian Orthodox Christmas services (we first went to the Kazan cathedral and later to the St. Nicholas cathedral) today. The singing, the architecture, the fixtures: they took my words away. I pulled out my journal this afternoon, as I usually do when I've been somewhere I think is worth remembering, and had no words to put on paper. My usually word-cluttered head was filled with nothing but screenshot memories of gold decorations and deep Russian vocals.

I type and delete, type and delete, unable to find the right words to describe what I saw, or rather, what I felt at the services. More than anything, I felt humble, even reverent. I'm not a religious person and often find organized religion frustrating, but the importance of these services to the people around me in the cathedrals today caused me to think a bit deeper about the presence of religion - Orthodox Christianity in particular - in maintaining the cultural identity of a people and place. I felt loss when Victoria and I discussed the inability of many Russians to practice their religion during the Soviet years, and mourned the many churches long forgotten due to the communist regime. I felt sadness comparing the clearly deep personal reverence of Russian Orthodox Christmas with the hallmark holiday I have always celebrated at home. Not because I would take back a single one of my wonderful Christmas memories, but because I would never be able to fully comprehend the relationship between the church-goers around me and the god to whom they are so faithful. I am filled, now more so than I have ever been, with a deep respect for those who maintain such historic religious traditions. 

Love from St. Petersburg,
Shonabell

Writing Again... From St. Petersburg This Time

Shawn Colvin's Twilight tunes out the airplane thrum. My hands are clammy from the slightly overly-heated air, but I grasp my pen a bit tighter and press my thoughts to the pages of my journal. The four of us (St. Petersburg-bound Colby students) sit, slightly cramped, in the middle aisle of this fancy two story plane. The stolen hotel pen is gripped tightly in my hand as my mind roams the cabin around me. On my left, Victoria sits next to the aisle, her feet slightly angled outwards. We boarded too late to fit her suitcase into the overhead bin, so she smooshed it partway beneath the blue patterned seat in front of her. Her light fingers tap at the seat-back screen, picking out music from the random flight selection, then her eyes dart back to the book in her hands and photos on her phone (I'm only slightly jealous of her multi-tasking abilities). She seems to have settled in for the trip, much calmer now than she was saying goodbye to her parents and walking through security. My eyes jump two rows ahead at the sound of giggling children, then dart back when I notice Victoria's attention is on them as well; her mouth moves into a slight smile. We may be exhausted from the hours of travel we've already put behind us, but our excitement for the adventure to come keeps our spirits high.

My hair won't stay tucked behind my ear so I take a moment to fuss with my braid. My hands fiddle with the slightly static strands while my mind wanders its way a day or two back to breakfast in Boston with dad, and the flamboyantly gay waiter who told me my hair looked like it could be on a Pinterest page (strangely one of the nicest compliments I've received to date, and one that my dad and I enjoyed laughing over multiple times during our drop-Shona-off-for-her-St.Petersburg-flight weekend). I smile at the accumulation of memories from the wonderful, if short, trip, and finish up my plait. The Residence Inn pen finds its way back into my hands, and I begin to write once more.

Faiyaz and Alan sit to my right, both occupied by Alan's book of Russian language tips. I laugh to myself as I empathize with their struggle to print Russian letters, a struggle I was all too familiar with a few months ago. I admire their dedication to this trip and the work they are putting in to get some of their pronunciations right. I give a suggestion here and there but am keenly aware that I could be steering them in the wrong direction; my Russian language skills extend the basics of declension charts and simple verb conjugations, with a few random vocab words thrown in to make everything more interesting.

It's not long before Ed Sheeran's Thinking Out Loud drags me back into memories of the end of my fall semester, and I struggle to focus myself. I'm tired, and my ability to put coherent sentences together is deteriorating.

OUCH! The guy in front of me just reclined his seat all the way back and slammed me in the head. Fiyaz laughs at me while I glare silently at the back of the chair in front of me, rubbing my forehead and trying to reposition myself to write again. I grasp an idea, and go with it:

This trip is a rather sharp contrast to my last study abroad experience. I feel relaxed, in control, and more prepared this time (which is odd because I've done much less orientation work for this trip than I did for my year in Marbella). When I dig a little bit deeper into my honest memories of Marbella, it becomes pretty clear to me the reason for a lot of the stress and fear I faced in the early stages in Marbella: unrealistic expectations. And that's not to say that I have low expectations for St. Petersburg, nor that Marbella was a disappointment. Two years ago I struggled to balance my expectations of exchange life with the rather difficult reality of not knowing Spanish and not being automatically the most popular person in school. The same problem got me again my senior year of high school. College apps were HARD and my acceptance expectations weren't met: cue unhappy teenage girl. So when it came to accepting my admittance to Colby, I decided to focus less on expectations and more on living each moment as it was. And now here I am, off to St. Petersburg, having skimmed over the itinerary and packed all my warmest clothes. I'm ready. To be honest, I have no clue what is about to come at me. I haven't even gone so far as to Google the city and scroll through pictures online. I know that my mind makes great jumps and spins intense webs, and I've decided not to clutter myself with that craziness anymore. I won't let my brain twist the city into something that could only ever exist in my head, and then expect my standards become tangible in the city. When I get there, I will see it, explore it, sense it and let it become part of me. But until I do, St. Petersburg will remain a mystery. One that I am so very, very excited to see.

I look back at the pages of journal that I've filled: I'm writing again. I take a moment to consider this, pen tapping against the pull down tray table, and a smile spreads across my face. Life is good; it may be messy and wibbly-wobbly at times, but I feel like it's heading in the right direction. My path doesn't seem to have linear tendencies like I once expected it to, but every stop I've made along the way since my acceptance at Colby has been filled with more laughter, smiles, and fantastic challenges that I ever could have predicted for myself. I sit on this flight and, for the first time in a long while, I write. And that action, in itself, feels like happiness.

Love from St. Petersburg,

Shonabell

Missing Marbella

It just hit me. I miss Spain. Terribly. I miss my city and my school, miss my walks down the beach, miss my favorite ice cream shop. I miss the ocean, miss the taste of salt in the air and always telling directions based on the beach. I miss the brightly colored buildings, the flowers and the tourist shops, the old Spanish streets and the taste of Spanish food. I miss catching the bus to wherever, miss having the feeling that I could go anywhere or do anything. I miss school, miss my seat along the long yellow wall in recreo, miss helping my friends in Latin and Greek, miss casual conversations with my classmates and having to learn cartwheels in gym. I miss Wednesdays with my best friend, miss calling her up and meeting her in town. I miss our long talks about anything and everything as we sat on the rocks and the sand. I miss her advice, her humor, her stories. I miss my exchange student friends, miss our adventures and our misadventures. Miss having someone to give my ice cream to when I couldn't finish it. I miss being pushed in the pool, miss my princess bed, miss washing the car in my bikini under the warm Spanish sun. I miss endless walks along the paseo, stargazing under blankets late at night. I miss the hugs that I dreamed about every day, curling up on buses and feeling safe in dangerous places. I miss smiling like my cheeks were going to burst, strawberries and cream that I wasn't allowed to touch. I miss spur of the moment taxi rides and melancholy, see-you-soon goodbyes. I miss falling up stairs and getting picked up when I'd fallen. I miss long summer days that never seemed to end. It all went so fast, but not a day goes by that my mind doesn't slip back to Marbella and the people I knew there.  It was a wonderful adventure, and I'm deeply, truly sad that it's over. And to be honest, I'm a bit terrified of what this next year will bring. Life really is one awfully big adventure.

Love from here, there and everywhere,

Shonabell 

A New Goodbye

Tick-tock goes the clock, tomorrow is the day.

The minutes go by and I watch as Sunday turns to Monday: Christian, Cj and I are waiting up at Nina's house. I'm tired from a day of packing, on and off tears, and nervousness for my flight tomorrow; but I can't go to sleep. The taxi is coming at 4am to take the three of us to the airport, where we'll meet up with Christine and Vanessa. Christine, Cj, and I have a 6:50am flight to Paris. I'll be back in California at 8pm.

It's funny, during this year I always made the mistake of calling the Malaga train station an airport. And now, when I went to type airport, I first wrote train station. Guess my mind is still finding it hard to believe that I'm going back. Don't know if I've really processed it at all yet. I did the same thing coming to Spain, put off the hard thoughts for as long as I could, then burst into tears walking through security. It's going to be hard to say goodbye this time. Already gave my farewells to my host families and Spanish friends. But now its time for the hard stuff. For the hugs that you don't think you can let go of. For the tears you think will never stop coming. For the see-you-soons that might never come true.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited to go back. But in a sad way, a melancholy way: my life here seems so real, so true and so NOW. I don't want to forget, don't want to wake up Wednesday morning and feel like it was all a dream. Don't want to come to terms with the idea of "the past is the past, let it go." I'm nervous. So, so very nervous. I don't know what next year will be like. But I know I have people in my life I can always, always count on to be there for me. I have people who love me, who will stand by my side through thick and thin, and who will be in my life forever. Whether they live halfway across the world or in the neighborhood across the street, I know they'll be there for me. And I'll always be there for them. Forever.

Now wish me luck: I have 6 more hours till I'm catching my flight... gotta stay AWAKE!

Love from Marbella,
Shonabell

Last Days

Well, it's the end. Or, as Vanessa (who is currently sitting on this cramped bus beside me) says, its the beginning of the end. We're seniors: I had my last day of junior year last Friday, said goodbye to my teachers and friends. Christine and I said our Rotary-farwells this past Wednesday, giving out final besitos and saying our thank-yous. I spent my last night at my host parents house last night, made my bed for the final time this morning and cleared out my room of everything except a small pile of clothes that I couldn't fit into my trip suitcase. I gave my host parents a farewell gift yesterday, a painting with my handprint and quotes from the Jim Henson's "Saying Goodbye" song covering the smeared paint. I woke up this morning, packed and ready for our viaje-por-España-y-Portugal, and had a bit of a panic attack. This is it, those final moments I've been looking forward to all year. These are the days of goodbye, of see you soon, of I'll miss you and Tequiero. It's hard to wrap my mind around going back, of leaving behind this life I've built here and going back to the one I've had for fifteen years. I'm turning seventeen in five days. Five. I'm putting off my birthday for as long as I possible can, almost hoping it'll be forgotten in the craziness of travel and sightseeing that we're going to experience this trip. Seventeens always been the age I looked towards, dreamed of. It's the year I'd planned to have so many things done by: SATs, AP classes, first boyfriend, first kiss, best friends, college visits, drivers license, Prom… so many expectations, some of which have come true and others which haven't. And yet, as seventeen comes closer and closer, I realize how many things I've done that I'd never have expected: I've seen and traveled through Spain, been to England, have plans and dreams to travel for the rest of my life, I'm confused for what I want from the rest of my life, but I'm happy to live in the moment, I've fallen in love, I've made friends and family in places I never thought to call home, I've begun to feel comfortable and beautiful in my own skin, I know how to work public transportation systems (mostly), I've learnt another language and have the goal to learn many, many more, I've grown up and yet I'm still confused, I'm still me. Thank you to everyone for this amazing year, I hope that seventeen is an even better one. The future might be terrifying, but I think I'm ready for it.

Growing Up

I'm sitting next to my little host cousin, Nacho, as he writes a book report on the story of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. He's got the storybook beside him, making out the words one by one and struggling to decide what to write. "I'm bored, I don't like the story of Peter Pan," he complains, and my host uncle tries to convince him of the wonders of the story. "Así volaron y volaron, como cometas al viento," the words ring in my head as he reads them aloud, the beauty of such simple spanish phrases, from a children's book to say the least, catching my mind and my thoughts until I can think of nothing else. I don't want to grow up. Or do I, I can't decide.

They say the story of Peter Pan is a children's story, a fairytale to enjoy when you're young. I've always liked the story, though as a child I disagreed heartily with Peter and his refusal to grow up. It seemed silly to me, for I'd always wanted to be older and more mature, that anyone would want to be a kid forever. The adults always seemed to have more fun, they went out without parents, had freedom and the ability to choose whatever they wanted to do. The world was an open door to them, and I enjoyed peering from inside the fun, safe house in which I passed my time. How I wanted to be older; oh, the joys of being seventeen, eighteen, twenty, thirty. But now that I'm less than a month away from seventeen, Peter Pan's ideas of running away to Never-Never Land grow more and more appeasing.
To go off and start a new life of without responsibility, worry, stress (except those pirates of course haha), and only the thought of the adventures we might have on my mind. All those responsibilities I rarely considered when I thought of growing up are now crashing into my reality. Its a terrifying and exhilarating thought, to grow up. Because unlike Peter Pan, I do have to grow up. I'm going back in a month and six days: this is the end of my adventure here, this wonderful year that has taught me so much. And though I know I'm going back, leaving my Never Never Land, a part of me refuses to grow up. A part of me still smiles when I play a board game with my 5 year old primo, a part of me still fantasizes about being a princess every time I see a castle, a part of me still dreams of being whisked away by Peter Pan in the middle of the night.

And yet, though I might not have met Peter Pan, swum with mermaids, or been chases through the sky by pirates, I've had plenty of my own adventures here. The people I've met and learned to love, the places I've seen and the things I've done, each a memory I will hold onto for the rest of my life. So, though I may have to grow up, I will always remember what it is to be a kid, to have that hope and love for life that so many people seem to lose. I will always be a little kid on the inside, a princess and fairy-loving girl with romantic hopes and dreams. I can grow up all I want, but that will never, ever change.

Love from Marbella,
Shonabell

Home

With just two months left in my exchange and a month's worth of "viajando" behind me, my thoughts on life ar as steady as the Marbella weather: one day sun, one day rain, and the constantly changing winds. As I'm sitting on the beach, chatting with my friend Claudia, the thought of going back to California, leaving these sunny beaches, lack of homework, and other things that I find so much joy in here, fills my stomach with dread. Then, after spending a week with him in Marbella and Barcelona, all I wanted was to follow my dad onto the plane as I stood there, pretending not to cry, and said goodbye. Most of all, I think back to everyone I've met this year; the Spanish, English, Australian, French, Canadian, *United States of* American, South American, Belgian, and even Danish people I've met and become friends with during these past eight months. Because, though I may have met them here, on my exchange, they will not end up disappearing quite as quickly as these last few days of my life here seem to be. Instead, I will carry their friendship with me wherever I go. Their love, words, and voices will be with me throughout the rest of my life. Whether it's my first host parents' calm silence, which taught me to enjoy the quiet routines that so often make up parts of life, or Eugenia's advice to be careful, for the boys here attack blondes, or Vanessa's constant ability to smile even in the toughest situations, or Christian's words of hope and the future when all I can see is the hard path in front of me, or my family's love for me, or Nina's stories of travel and long-lasting friendships, or Rotary's always-giving spirit, everything I've learned this year has made me, and will continue to make me, who I am. They make this world, this big, giant world, seem so much smaller than it once was. I can now look at a map and see, rather than mysterious blobs on a piece of paper, all the people whom I know and care for. And, just as I'm about to leave this home I have here in Spain to another I have in California, I'm beginning to realize that my definition of home is beginning to change. No longer is it just the old ranch house settled in a little corner of Pleasanton, nor the white and blue tiled house on the beach across from the coca-cola can, nor the four-story, flower surrounded house in Nagueles. Instead, I find that my home is this world; that no matter where I am, it is the people I am with that will make me feel safe, loved, and, quite simply, at home.

***just a quick side note, I want to apologize for taking so long to write this blog. The thoughts have been running around my head for so long, I just couldn't find the way to put them into sentences that would make sense to all of you reading. So, thank you for your patience; I'm having a fantastic time here. I should be posting a few more blogs about my last month, accompanied by photos of course :).

As always,
Love from Marbella,
Shonabell