2. Departure-Arrival Story

Nothing But Sky

The night before I left from Logan airport, I could barely sleep a blink in my own bed. I tossed, I turned, I stared at the white of the ceiling as the dark frowned around me and wondered. What would it all be like? What will change before I'm back again? What have I gotten myself into? The next morning, I quietly assembled my bags at the door and drove in practical silence to the airport with my parents. I was so excited, yet so nervous. I had never flown before alone. This really was a whole new independent life I was starting. After getting my ticket and dropping off my baggage, I got in line for the security checkpoint. My parents followed me, stayed there standing near me, as I snaked my way through the line. When I reached the front, they hugged me quickly and I turned and watch them go. This was the beginning.

I was on my own, leaving the one place I knew to try something incredibly exciting but incredibly scary as well. Traveling abroad is something I have done before in high school, so it wasn't the fear of homesickness that worried me, or some fright that I might not be ready to live away from home. I knew I'd be okay. But it came to me suddenly in the airport that I had thought so much about all the things to do before I left (spend time with my family, watching movies warm under blankets while the New England snow piled high outside the window; order take out with my friends and laugh and stay out late, driving again and again through the same old tired town we'd known since we were kids; live New York as much as I could one last time before leaving it for so many months, take cabs with my friends, laugh in the rain, and get wet, watch the skyline darken and spring to yellow light in the morning) that I had left myself no time to think about what it would be like when I finally arrived, when it all began, and I was no longer waiting, but living it. All these thoughts bombarded me as I sat anxiously at the departure gate, half-reading American Pyscho, which my sister had recommended as a smart and fierce choice of book for a young girl sitting alone. Before I knew it, they were calling the flight and we were boarding. I looked around, at the people milling around in quiet businesslike fashion, out the windows a the landscape of the country, green and rustling in the wind, at the sky, white and flat, I was just about to penetrate, whose arc I would soon follow to another side of the world. I boarded the plane and breathed. As the engines started up, I took one last look out the window. The country began moving, then whirring in blurry lines beneath my gaze, and then we were off, and everything was falling away below me into the past, and there was nothing but sky in front. As the plane reached the top of the sky, the blue and green of the earth fell away and there was only white around. Clouds, pillows, endless wasps of blue. I smiled. It was beautiful. Closing the window, I leaned back and closed my eyes. This was going to be quite an adventure.

pursuit of carnivale: unintended adventure in rosarioEveryone says that Buenos Aires is a dangerous place. Before leaving for Argentina, friends and family reminded me of the imminent danger that awaited me just outside the “safety” of my American Airlines flight. The scene of my potential kidnapping and trade into internal bondage, dreamed up by my mother, was relayed to me repeatedly in a desperate attempt to impress upon me the need to be cautious. And yet for some reason, despite rather graphic images of servitude that I carried with me amongst my baggage, I arrived in Argentina feeling like no real harm could come my way. After all I’ve been living in New York for several years now, and possibly overconfidently presume myself invincible.

It didn’t take very long living in Buenos Aires, however, to understand that my lackadaisical attitude to toward safety and security would end up proving my invincibility theory to be false and my mother’s worse nightmares to be true. Our first days of orientation consisted of long lectures on how exactly to avoid the various criminals in the city, how not to be taken advantage of, and how to scream for help in Spanish if we do in fact become the victim of any array of criminal activity. It became evident to me that my parents’ advice was not the overly vigilant ravings (well-know within the Jewish clan) that I had thought, but rather appropriate instructions to be followed.

This so-called danger which everyone speaks of, however, that’s lurking all around the wonderful things in the city—hiding in the empanadas, and waiting ever so patiently to snatch your purse outside the posh Palermo boutiques—is easy to forget about if one does not make a point of being suspicious of every Argentine she sees. Nonetheless, I became especially apprehensive after a girl on the NYU program was robbed at knifepoint at 10:00 p.m. on a crowded street. Though she’s a small little thing, this particular girl had the courage to defend herself from her attacker and run, escaping with only a slight surface wound in the process. Knowing that were I in similar circumstances I would roll over and surrender my belongings and myself rather than attempt flight, I decided this was the moment to start heeding all those words of caution.

Now as I walk down the street, no matter where I am, I tend to look at passersby in a different light. When someone approaches to ask for the time, I simply say that I don’t know, rather than rummage through my purse like the silly fool they take me for. But being so cautious comes at a price. The other day I was walking home with two friends early in the morning after a long night of dancing when suddenly a strange voice from behind us said, “Como se dice mala suerte en ingles?” Immediately my heart started pounding, I knew we were being robbed. But I was prepared; I grasped my purse tightly and ran to the other side of the street—every man for themselves. When I reached the other sidewalk I looked back frantically to see what was going on. To my surprise my two friends were still there, and seemingly having a pleasant conversation with three very cute boys. I hesitated before slowly walking back towards the group. Apparently, while we were absorbed in our frivolity my friends and I had inadvertently walked under a ladder. Contrary to what my intuitions had concluded these young fellows were not trying to rob us, but merely to warn us of our bad luck. Go figure.

I was prepared to experience culture shock at some point on my trip. I wasn’t sure when or how it would manifest itself, but I was I knew it would come. I just wasn’t expecting it to come at the times it did.Despite the protracted pre-departure vacation that we had, I surprisingly spent little time thinking and musing about the impending, evidently life-altering voyage I was soon to be embarking on. So when the D-day finally arrived, I embarked emotionally and introspectively blind. In retrospect, I see that this is the only way I could have and should have entered this new world here. There really is no appropriate way to prepare.According to Dr. Carmen Guanipa, a teaching psychologist at San Diego State University, culture shock follows a particular pattern and there are specific stages.He first describes the “honeymoon” stage, in which “the new arrival may feel euphoric and be pleased by all of the new things encountered.” Surprisingly, this period didn’t come in the onset of my arrival. I have taken several trips to Europe, and each time, my overwhelming excitement eclipsed any discomfort that I felt.But in this case, perhaps since I knew I was here to live, and had to adjust and adopt a new routine and was lost and confused, incapable of immediately controlling the pace of my adaption, which, if I could choose, would be immediate.. but in retrospect, i guess you could say it is all part of the assimilation process.backing up a bit, to my initial arrival... my recollection is blurry. i remember disembarking the plane, drunk off fatigue and nerves, idling for several hours in the airport, shuttled to a bus. with my forehead resting on the window, my eyes scanning my surroundings.. we cruised down the highways and eventually, bottlenecked onto the city streets, finally arriving at the academic center, which was teeming with people and chatter. my disorientation began to hit.Like kindergarden children, we were told to wait for our "host" mothers to come pick us up. I attempted to mingle but i was restless and tired. I finally was found and picked up by Susi, my host mother. I discovered I had a roommate, Sydney, and we were led to a cab that drove us to our new home.My culture shock manifested in waves, of extreme highs and lows; I guess somewhat like bipolar disorder would feel. The highs and lows are intense and disorienting. The first 2 nights were hard. No one had cell phones yet, and my internet wasn't working, so I felt remote and disconnected from everyone. My spanish is at an elementary level, too, so I couldn't venture out and connect with new people yet. 3 weeks later, I still feel a similar sense of detachment, and it's starting to worry me. I'm hoping I am still able to met my initial goal of rooting myself in this new place. http://edweb.sdsu.edu/people/CGuanipa/cultshok.htm

A New Pace, Buenos Aires
My name is Gabby Agin-Liebes. I just joined the class, so excuse my tardy post! I am from New York City and have chosen to study abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
This is a significant change for me, especially since this is my first time leaving New York City for an extended period of time. I’m become so acculturated to the city; its smells, its pace, its people and especially its food, for the past 11 years that my leaving it is almost subversive—an unfamiliar deviation in the trajectory of my life. I also, unlike most of my peers, had never experienced the culture shock that comes with leaving home for college. I opted to stay in the very large microcosm that I’ve called home throughout my most formative years—its vigorous dynamism so thrilling and stimulating I couldn’t fathom living anywhere else.
But in recent months, and even years, I couldn’t help but notice that the energy of the city was outpacing my own by too unsettling an amount. I realized I had become utterly disillusioned by my surroundings, and the petty affectations of those around me. Disconnected from humanity, and myself, I had no choice but to leave. I chose Buenos Aires for several reasons: Its exotic location and nature lured me away from my North American city jungle. (I also realized I wouldn’t have to forfeit the urban, cosmopolitan life I am so attached to). I also had romantic notions of South America: the cordiality of its people, a culture texturized by the troubled political history and its beautiful, cadenced language. Most of all, I felt ready to disrupt my equilibrium and do something new and potentially uncomfortable in an entirely new environment.

When I applied to study abroad in Prague, I had a completely different idea and view of this country. The only thing I knew about Prague was that it was cold. Only because my mom told me about a thousand times to pack a lot of warm clothes. I’m from the west coast and going to and fro from New York to home, I wasn’t afraid or intimidated to come here. It was another semester away from home. Packing was a breeze, but saying goodbye all over again to my family and friends wasn’t such a breeze. Even though I’d done this many times, I still ended up choking up and looking over my shoulders again and again.
Passport and ticket in hand, I was ready to leave. So…why did I choose to study abroad again? I seemed to have forgotten why I wanted to study abroad. Will it be worth it? Will I have fun? All these questions clouded my mind as I started shuffling all my belongings into those plastic bins. I hate airports.
I said my final goodbyes and walked alone to my gate. Here we go again.

My flight was L-O-N-G. I had about 2 layovers and it was disgusting. But I felt better after purchasing a 7 dollar latte at Heathrow’s Starbucks. I’m starting to miss the U.S. already!

After what seemed to be an eternity, we landed at Prague at about 9 p.m. I looked out that little airplane window and saw nothing but snow. Nonetheless, I’m used to snow and though disappointed, I was excited to see Prague the next morning. I was excited to start my semester at Prague.

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Not knowing that this class had already begun I spent the last week of my time in the states thinking about other things besides my impending trip to Buenos Aires. I was trying to rewrite a paper about a syncretic religion in Brazil and its relation to the concepts of mestizaje and racial democracy. Besides being a mouth/mindfull which no reader would care to see here the topic took much of my time. After spending six days or so thinking about Latin-American issues I finally faced the task of packing on Saturday night before I left on Sunday afternoon. I brought a frame-pack, my laptop, and a backpack. Mostly clothes, a few electronic necessities, and several books.

The clothes I brought were a projection of what I expected. Here’s an unnecessarily detailed account of my shirts; hopefully it’ll give you an idea of the somewhat-nervous young traveler’s mindset as to their image abroad.

4 sweaters

Nice sweaters too, by which I mean thin and stylish-looking; one even had a knitted turtleneck that could be unzipped to form a nice collar. I imagined brisk spring weather and wearing sweaters outside cafes.

Several t-shirts

In the back of my mind I was no doubt thinking of the power of the t-shirt as a self-advertisement. Our generation (especially the males) expresses itself through the designs on t-shirts more than our baby boomer parents did. As for me I brought two (not all) of my Simpsons shirts, a few plain white Hanes t-shirts, and anything else I wanted to be identified with. One with records spinning, another that said “laugh riot”, one of two tie-die shirts—the brighter an pinker of the two. It wasn’t all so masterfully planned out but thought went into it. What would Argentines, and yes, fellow students, think of me wearing on the street or in bars and clubs?

2 collared short sleeved shirts

One polo I never wear and another collared shirt from Times-Up which I suppose labels me as one of those environmentalist biker types which I never was but wanted to be in freshman year. These were for going out.

3 button-down dress shirts

Green and white checker plaid, light blue with dark blue pinstripes, and black with a tie to match. I also never wear clothes like this but thought these would be good for clubs or bars, tucked into H&M denim or American Apparel dark grey slim fit pants.

The flights were uneventful. I had some trouble sleeping and decided to read the free book that we were given titled Eternal Curse on the Reader of These Pages. It was entirely dialogue between an old paranoid Argentinean man who’d left the country in the 1980s (during the dictatorship responsible for making 30,000 intellectuals, labor leaders and other vocal citizens disappear) and a 35 year-old NYU graduate at a nadir in his life and job prospects as a history-major. The book begins with the younger man wheeling the older around Washington Square Park. The older man talks about a dream in which the park had an enormous tree in the middle that only had one fruitful branch. The story ends sadly though the younger man learns something which is never clearly defined in his last words.

I arrived at seven thirty in the morning (it was hot and would be for a while; I don’t think Spring will be so brisk after all) waited in line to get my passport stamped and saw three beautiful women (were they all blond?) handing out coupons for the duty-free shop as I walked to baggage claim. I knew that Argentine women were supposed to be beautiful as well as that any such claim is always a myth which often covers up disturbing ideas about body image and race which I’ll hope to understand better before I leave. I went through customs and, after wandering in and out of the airport for twenty minutes, was flagged-down by Pedro who was picking up lost students for NYU as they arrived. I met the first few students who had come on my same flight and soon there were ten of us sitting in the airport surrounded by our bags. Everyone was tired. Some had previously been signed on to go to Tel-Aviv before fighting broke out. They were nice and we just joked and stared into space until the mini-bus was ready to take us to the city.

We arrived at the student center and met a few more kids who had come a little early. There was a really nice breakfast. One by one students got picked up by their host parents. Mine did not show up so an NYU staff member got in a taxi with me and my bags. We sped down the Avenida de Sante Fe, kind of like Broadway with a lot of shopping and traffic. Soon we approached what I thought was a river judging by the distance of the buildings in the next block. This turned out to be the Avenida del Nueve de Julio, one of the widest streets in the world. Whereas most city streets become dark as the sun moves behind the buildings this street is lit up all day. It is beautiful.

My host mother answered to door of her apartment in Retiro, an old upscale neighborhood close to the water. She is an artist and the apartment is large and beautiful, with art on every wall, much of it hers. I slept and then took a map she gave me for a walk around the neighborhood. I ended up in a park full of trees with flowers in bloom. In the middle of the park (the Plaza de San Martin) was an enormous tree. For the circumference of its trunk—I imagine over thirty feet—it was not very tall but its low branches, which must have measured at least fifteen feet around, stretched fifty and sixty feet out as if trying to reach all the corners of the park at once. When I saw it I stopped short and wondered if this was the tree that the character had seen in his dream about Washington Square Park. This place is beautiful and I can’t wait to discover more.

Techtle Mechtle

The night I arrived, we checked into our dorms which are really nice. I live in Prague 2 in an area called Vinorhady. The area is beautiful outside and rather reminiscent of the Upper East Side in New York. At night time it is quiet, and the absence of noise is pleasing when I compare it with the clamorousness of New York. There was supposed to be 4 people in my room, however, since NYU Prague is smaller in the spring there are only 2 (and my room is huge). After our check-in, our dorm (and the one closest to us—Machlova) went to a pizza place and had a plethora of pizza with different toppings (mostly meat—and in Czech meat is pork). I sat next to a group of kids from Bucknell and got to know them fairly well over the course of dinner. Afterwards, a bunch of us Slezka’s (that’s the name of my dorm) decided to go down the street to a Czech bar/club. To be honest, it was more a bar trying to pose as a club, but by New York standards, in no way was “Techtle Mechtle” (‘hanky panky’ in English) a club. Across the street, there is a café called “celebrity café” featuring pictures on the windows of Pamela Anderson and other D-List celebrities. Techtle Mechtle, from the outside, is completely unnoticeably unless you read the sign. The building blends in with the rest of the off-white brick buildings surrounding it. Inside, you walk downstairs and into a large, dark-lit, red walled room with a black bar in the middle that blasts American tunes such as “Rehab” by Rihanna. At the bar, a waitress ignores my request for a beer after having asked her in English. Another bartender, male, 20-something, eventually assists me with my drink order. The Pilsner is delicious. Truly unlike any American beer I have tasted before—thicker, far more refreshing, twice as big, and 1 dollar US. After a few hours of talking to people on my program, we decided to walk back.

SmogThe first week has been surreal. I feel as if I'm going to wake up at any point to find myself on my bed in New York. The idea of studying abroad still hadn't hit me the morning of my departure. “Mom, I'm only gone for 4 months”, I reassuringly told her and she seemed to hold back tears. The drive to the airport failed to bring along any anticipation or nervousness. The bag check went smoothly, and I survived the walk to my cabin without a hitch. I was about to embark on a 19 hour journey to the opposite side of the world and I felt absolutely nothing. As I sat down in seat 35H next to a very quiet Asian lady I began to wonder what emotions I should be feeling. Should I be sad about leaving my family and friends? Should I be excited for the next 4 months? Should I at least be nervous about the airplane food?

19 hours and two rather satisfying airplane meals later, United flight 835 began its descent into Shanghai. Looking out the window I could see plains and farmland for miles. New York's towering skyscrapers were replaced by single level farm houses, some with tarps for roofs. And that's when it hit me, the first hint of emotion in almost a day. Nonchalance was quickly replaced with fear, excitement, regret and anticipation. The first thing I noticed was the intense pollution that thickly blankets the city. I looked out of the window of the shuttle bus and noticed an dully eerily glowing circle in the sky. After staring at it for a few seconds I realized it was the sun, struggling to shine through the smog.

I was slightly less culture shocked than some of my travel mates. I have been to Shanghai before, albeit 1 day when I was 13 years old, and I am conversant in Mandarin. Shanghai is a large and busy city. With more than twice the population of New York it teems life. Being a pedestrian in Shanghai is a skill, crossing the street is an art that takes practice. Hundreds of motorcycles, mopeds, and bicycles swerve between traffic at any given intersection. The concept of a line is nonexistent in Shanghai. I suppose it is just more efficient that way. If a person can get his task done faster, why wait for somebody else?

My first week in Shanghai has been quite the experience. Visiting beautiful Yuyuan Gardens, Tongli water town, the Shanghai Aquarium, and walking along the glass floor of the 100th floor in Shanghai World Financial Center has given me a glimpse of old and new Shanghai. A part of me is beginning to regret being “only gone for 4 months.”

One of Cristina's Paintings (My host mom) After flying in to Buenos Aires, NYU bussed all the students to the academic center. Dripping sweat from the hot and humid air of the city, I dragged my two pieces of luggage, both just barely under the 50 pound limit for international flights, across the street and into the building. I was immediately shocked by the beauty of the academic center. The lounge area, with high ceilings, marble decorations, and beautiful wood, felt very romantic and I could not believe that I would be studying in such an amazing building.

After taking in the environment, I snacked on some empanadas and other small Argentine foods provided by NYU. I wasn’t well informed about the day’s schedule, so I wondered when I would be taken to my home stay. To pass the time I introduced myself to a few of the other students, and eventually I was told that I was supposed to check-in because many of our home stay parents were already in the building and waiting for us. Nervously, I approached a faculty member and gave her my name and the home stay contact name that I had been e-mailed a week or so ago. The faculty member smiled, and informed me that Cristina, my host mother, was already here waiting for me. Since I had been looking forward to meeting my home stay family for months, I was surprised that when I realized that this moment was about to happen I felt horribly nervous rather than excited. My mind was flooded with questions. I knew nothing about my family…what if they didn’t like me or the way I dressed? What if I was super awkward around them? What if we couldn't communicate at all because of the language barrier? Before I had the time to figure out the answers, I was greeted with an Argentine kiss from Cristina Plate, my new host mother. Quite obviously, the first thing I noticed was her physical appearance—I thought she was beautiful.  She was an older lady, but she was dressed chicly, and very well kept. I had heard before that Latin Americans are very conscious of their self image, and Cristina seemed to confirm this in every way.

My first conversations with Cristina were slightly awkward…my Spanish is horrible and I had difficulty understanding her, but fortunately, she spoke enough English for us to get by. As I gathered my luggage to bring back to my new home, more thoughts and questions occupied my mind…I wondered what Cristina thought about me

and if she was upset that my Spanish wasn’t perfect, I anticipated what my new home would look like, and I pondered if I had any other family members. We transported my bags into a cab outside, and I was embarrassed about how heavy the bags were. After heaving the luggage in the back, I quickly learned that a ride in an automobile with an Argentine driver is far crazier than any NYC taxi ride. Cristina and I nervously spoke to each other about my flight and my travels here. Right before we arrived at my new home, she told me that I would be living with just her, and she explained to me that the apartment was small and humble but perfect for the two of us. I was happy to learn that it was just me and Cristina—although some people specifically requested homes with lots of people, for some reason, I hoped that I would live with a widow!

...that was my experience meeting my host. Now that I have gotten to know Cristina better, I feel so lucky to be living with her. She is a painter, which means a lot to me because I really wanted a host that was interested in art. Her work is beautiful and she is going to hook me up with some art lessons in the city. She makes delicious food, buys me chocolate covered alfajores, and has the coffee all set for me every morning…I couldn’t ask for anything more!

So I'm what? 3, 4, 9 topics behind? The flight took only about 9 hours. I say only because I've heard some horror stories of travel time taking as much as 3 days. On the ride to the airport I kept checking and double checking to make sure I had my things to only realize that I left the chargers for BOTH of my cameras, my favorite white skirt and my ipod headphones. I decided to fly on Aeorlineas Argentina (how Argentine of me) and was bumped to much better seats after the concierge swore I didn't have any seat on the plane. I sat next to a very nice Brasilian girl who for some reason made me feel so at ease. I also sat next to a family who had children who seemed to not care that it's way past their bed time and they should be going to sleep. After eating the delicious chicken (I think) with special sauce and potatoes, I decided to pop a sleeping pill and just knock out. If not, I would have remained awake and anxious. I landed and I prayed. I prayed hard. I convinced myself that the airline would lose my luggage so that I wouldn't be as devestated to find out that they actually had in fact lost it. But they didn't, and I silently celebrated. The airport reminded me so much of Jamaica in the way that people stare at you as you descend from the airport. It's nerve wrecking, and frankly embarassing. I hope I didn't have anything in my nose. I saw a kindly looking young guy with an NYU shirt and an NYU cap on. He was my go-to guy who was there to pick me up. He led us away and we got a taxi to take us to the center. The drive to the center took quite some time, but all in all it was quite painless; as was check in. Because I landed at 7 in the morning, I didn't have to endure the long lines and anxious students. I was in, out, fed and caffiened up and my host mom came to pick me up. So far I love Buenos Aires, although I don't feel all that comfortable here. More-so because I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing/where I'm going/what to do. I hope I can get it together very soon.