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End of a Journey
My time is Ukraine is now over..
It’s been so good and so full to the brim of beautiful friendships with deep roots and opportunities to study Scripture with people, debate philosophical issues, teach and preach.
My time has also been full of funny moments, laughing until I cried and bonding through sharing living spaces and life experiences.
It’s been a time of winding down and preparing to close this season of my life and open the next. The leaves are changing colors and I feel like this time had been full of good fruit, both in my life and the lives of others.
One of the lessons I am learning about service overseas is that I am just one person and can only do so much. So often I walk the streets of this town and there is so much more that can be done.
My roommate and I were walking home a few weeks ago at night and a little boy ran up behind her, spanked her and ran off. We chased the boy and found him and his friend on the next street. My roommate caught the boy when he dropped his cigarettes. After talking with them, we discovered that the boy was nine years old and his friend was 12. They were just roaming the streets at night and had no plans of returning home until morning. They were bumming cigarettes off passing adults. Who is there to tell them they are loved? What if I stayed and started this project or that camp?
But I know I am not that person right now.
I am also learning to trust that God is in control despite the obvious pain I see. I believe we humans messed up big time and that has an impact on the peace of the world. Peace is no longer a given. But it is there to be had. C.S. Lewis said pain is God’s microphone.
On the streets of L’viv, the blind women sing with a cup help outstretched to beg for money because they have little opportunity to make money elsewhere. Though their voices are small and scratchy, the memory of their faces and the sound of their song will never leave me.
Missionary simply means ‘sent one.’ Nothing special. I have learned so much in my time overseas. I was sent, but now I must go back to LeTourneau University in preparation for the next task.
Thank you so much for staying with me and for reading along as I grew and struggled, made mistakes and had triumphs. I hope that you were touched in some small way. I was honored by those of you who left comments on the blogs and who told me in person that you kept up with me in my journey. Thank you.
Thank you so much to the Longview News Journal, for allowing me to share my journey with so many people. You are an amazing group of people. I pray that each of you may be prosperous where you are planted.
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Those who can’t teach, Don’t
I have heard the expression, “Those who can’t, Teach,” and even used it myself in the past. Now that I have taught, I might be inclined to smack the next person who uses this phrase in my presence.
When I came to the student center, I was told I would be teaching English classes. For the past few years, I have wanted to try this job, but I had thought I would be certified or trained before taking on a class full of impressionable foreigners…
“Are there any resources I can use or anyone I can ask for advice?” I inquired hopefully. I was pointed to the English teacher who just finished, another college student from the states. Her advice; play lots of games. “Well, it’s a start,” I thought. But somehow I knew I would run out of games for 3 hours a week, two classes, for four weeks.
Never before have I been so thankful for the Internet. Type in ‘ESL resources’ and Google will guide you to the Holy Grail of ideas, theories and games!
I am also indebted to my students for the mercy and patience they showed me when I changed my mind because an activity was boring or when I completely didn’t have enough things to do. Often I just drilled them on their week so they would practice the language.
One of my favorite classes went more like a girls café outing. I had three girls in my class that day, and we started out with an activity about the Olympics and the vocabulary usually used for the Olympics. We played a game with our vocabulary and talked about our sports aspirations.
Then we transitioned to talking about names and the meanings behind names. Girls don’t stay on one topic for long. We discussed common Ukrainian names and the meaning behind them and then we started talking about what we would name our children. All of a sudden one girl asked what color of wedding dress we wanted and we all burst out laughing. Somehow we had gotten from the Olympics to marriage. We were such girls. The reverie was short as we discussed the pros and cons of waiting to get married and the girls shared their dreams of careers and various lifestyles. I looked down at my watch and realized we were way past the end of our class time. By the time the girls left, we had a 2 and a half hour class.
These are moments I cherish, in the midst of the learning process.
As I prepared to leave, one of my students and I took a walk around L’viv to see some of the churches and sites I hadn’t gotten to. It was a beautiful day and I enjoyed spending some last moments with sweet-spirited Halya. When we finished our walk and split ways, Halya smiled and said, “Thank you for ‘Oh my Goodness,’ and ‘Gotcha,” and for being my teacher.” I laughed so hard. She had picked my slang up along the way.
Perhaps I didn’t turn out perfect English speakers, but I had a lot of fun hanging out with Ukrainian college students and passing on my bad habits. We now have a bunch of Ukrainians who can put “Ya’ll” in its proper place.
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Hiking Down the Mountain
After two days at the first mountain, our group met a second group of students on the train and commenced to a larger mountain. We were now 11 students and one middle-aged New Zealander the students had picked up at the hostel under the student center.
We started hiking again from the train station, through a village with babushkas(grandmothers) walking side by side thick in conversation and chickens clucking and pecking at the ground.
The village ended at the foot of the mountain and we began to climb upward pretty steadily. The rain had begun before we got to the mountain, but now it came more steadily. We were climbing at a good, steep incline and we looked a bit like a line of mules, bent forward under the weight of our packs as we took on the mountain. The rain made for slick terrain, but we pressed on. The New Zealander reminded me that there are no mountains in Texas and kept checking to see if I was ok. He was fairly certain that I wouldn’t make it.
About halfway up I asked him to predict how much longer it would be. We kept cresting hills and they seemed to be the top and then they weren’t. False hope shot down.
He predicted that we would be finished in about 200 meters. I agreed under the conditions that if he were wrong I would push him down the mountain and write him a nice epitaph in various languages on the hillside. He was wrong.
Fortunately, I decided to have mercy on the fellow.
An hour and a half later we crested the top and I laughingly told those who sat down that we weren’t finished and that they had better get up! Jura looked at me seriously and pointed to a distant peak, “We’re just resting. That’s the mountain we are trying to get to.” Gulp.
Altogether the climb was beautiful and less intense that I had imagined. We wound our way around the sides of the hills until we came to our mountain. There were blueberry bushes all along the way and even an old deserted cheese factory for goat cheese.
Once we made it to our mountain, the wind picked up and it was a struggle to remain earthbound. We climbed steadily and made it victoriously to the top around four o’clock. 5,000 ft in one day. Not too bad.
The wind and rain were soaking us and threatening to take us back to L’viv via air transport. We decided to make a quick decent but couldn’t find a trail down from the mountain.
This is where the real adventure begins. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line… So, we began to head straight down the mountain out of the wind. We were walking straight down through fields of barren blueberry bushes. Within minutes our pants were soaked. The hills were extremely steep so the bushes served to provide traction, but we still slipped and slid our way down.
For at least a mile we climbed down through these fields of bushes, laughing and picking our way down as best we could. Andriy found that weaving was a good technique, so we began to move down as though we were skiing, only without the skis and without the snow.
That night we burrowed into our tents on the side of the mountain and listened to the wind rush by. We had found a fairly sheltered place, but the wind was so strong we were certain we would wake up in Ivan Franko Park in the center of Lviv. The boys made dinner while the girls talked and laughed in our tent.
I’m not sure how to wear the title of intern. I’m not exactly sure what all that entails. But for now, I am content to get to know these new friends and ‘do life’ with them.
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Capathian Mountain Trek
A week after I arrived in L’viv, six students from the Methodist student center and I boarded a train and headed to the Carpathian Mountains of Ukraine for a hiking adventure.
A few days before we left, I saw the guys at the computer planning the trip. They were trying to decide which way to go on our hike. I naively suggested they call the Parks services to ask for their advice. They looked at one another and laughed. “This is Ukraine.” They said. “We don’t have trails, much less Park Rangers.”
I decided to trust my guides and shut my mouth from then on. I would soon learn a lot about Ukrainian hiking.
We took the train three hours away and began our hike up to a series of small hills. Before we got off the main road, we stopped for a lunch break. I pulled my sandwich out of my bag and was poised to take a bite when Halya offered me another sandwich from a bag she had brought. I was confused. Weren’t we each supposed to bring a sandwich? She had brought one for everyone.
I declined her offer and one of the boys noticed my confusion. “Let me tell you something about Ukrainians. They share everything!” I smiled sheepishly and took Halya’s sandwich. I had much to learn about this new culture.
We began hiking and the reality of no trails was truer than anything else that day. We cut our path for the better part of the day, through raspberry brambles, thick forest and blueberry bushes ripe with berries. We climbed and climbed and went through valleys. We sang sometimes and talked at others.
Finally at 4 o’clock, we crested a hill and saw another in the distance. We were trying stubbornly to reach the top of this certain ‘mountain’, but we realized that we were still on the hill next to it. The group decided to head down to a campsite and pitch our tents for the night.
That night, we sat around the campfire and ate and talked and, though much of the conversation was in Ukrainian, I felt as though I had found a family and been accepted into it. That sweet realization filled me with warmth as I pondered a God greater than the expanse of the sky and the stars over me.
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Girls’ Night
One of the first things Erika said was that all the new missionary wives and interns plan slumber parties for the girls in the student center. My mind set to work dreaming up games and planning food for all the people who would come. I tried to get a feel for local customs and what they usually did in the past, but it was a bit difficult. So, I decided to plan a lot of activities like I would for a young girl’s group at home. I thought back to my job as a camp counselor last summer and tried to think of fun get-to-know-you activities.
My American self worked overtime, making chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and pizza for the big event. What slumber party is complete without junk food?
Earlier that morning, I had discovered that our oven didn’t work. So I had hiked from the apartment to the student center and back to bake the cookies, brownies, and pizza. Dr. Mays had warned me that my internship in Ukraine would be a bit more ‘pioneer’ than Amsterdam. I have a washing machine so I consider myself blessed beyond measure.
That night the girls trickled in and we ended up with a group of about eight. It was smaller that I expected, but everyone donned their pj’s and dove into the spread of food.
I reheated the pizza and served it to the girls. One politely asked for mayonnaise and ketchup. I looked around to see what she could possibly want Mayo and ketchup for, but then she explained that she likes to put it on her pizza. I headed for the kitchen, confused but ready to accommodate my guests. I would soon learn that students in Ukraine put mayonnaise and ketchup on practically everything. Unfortunately, I have picked up the practice and adapted to the taste. It is cheap and ‘a way to get in your vegetables,’ as one Ukrainian put it.
Ukrainian girls are like any others, and we talked and talked as the food on the table slowly disappeared. Finally, one turned and asked if I wanted to read them my story. I had prepared a story instead of preaching. I’ve discovered that I like stories better and they seem to resonate with our age group in a powerful way. Anyhow, who wants to preach at a slumber party? So, I read them a story that I adapted from one I had heard before. It is more of a parable, about God’s love for us and how awesome His mercy is.
Afterward we transitioned to the computer room and one girl showed a mime to a Casting Crowns song. It was really powerful. We started watching random videos and I decided to show them a piece of LeTourneau University. I showed one video about the women of LeTourneau and then I showed them the music video for Al Yanchovic’s White and Nerdy and explained that I go to school with a lot of awesome people just like that.
We popped in a chick-flick and I fell asleep to the Russian dubbed movie. It was a good night with good people who amaze me with the way they accept my new face.
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Surprise!
The best part about working at the student center is that I had no idea what I would be doing until I got here. The missionaries asked for an intern and I prayed about it and knew it was in my heart from the beginning. This meant staying in Europe for six more weeks and only having two weeks of summer vacation, but I knew I couldn’t miss the opportunity.
My family was amazing and agreed to let me go.
When we got back to Amsterdam from traveling Western Europe, I saw them to the airport and we said our goodbyes. Goodbyes seem to be a necessary part of the missionary lifestyle. Not my favorite part, but necessary nonetheless.
I boarded an airplane to Slovakia and headed off. The next step was catching a train to L’viv. Eventually I made my way to the beautiful old city and was met at the train station by four students from the center. They all gave me huge hugs, and I knew I was home.
That afternoon, I showered and then had breakfast with my roommate, Valya, when the doorbell of our apartment started to ring. Students from the center poured in to meet the new intern. “Where are you from?” “How old are you?’ “Do you have a boyfriend?” “What do you do in your spare time?” “Do you drink alcohol?” What kind of movies do you watch?” I could hardly keep up with the stream of questions, but it was fun meeting these fellow college students who would become my friends. There were about 20 students in the apartment when we all decided to go play volleyball in the park. Every Sunday the group goes to play.
Four hours later, I was wondering if Ukrainian people ever get tired. We were on our sixth game of volleyball, and I was once more reminded of how much of an athlete I am not. My roommate offered me an escape, and we went to grab some authentic Ukrainian food at a restaurant called Puzata Hata, or round house.
The next day, I went to the student center to meet the local pastor, Lubomir, and have the grand tour. I asked exactly what they would like for me to do and was given a wide list of options. Once I asked, I realized I wouldn’t be bored.
Lubomir said that they needed an English-Second-Language teacher and that I would also lead English club on Saturday nights. He also told me to talk to Erika, our student intern, about things to do. Erika was full of suggestions. We started to get excited about all the possibilities the next six weeks would hold; a four day camp in the Carpathian Mountains for starters. So, I rolled up my sleeves and got started.
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Where I am now…
Two weeks before I left Amsterdam, I received an email from Ukraine. Last semester when I was looking for a place to do my internship I applied at the Shelter and at a Methodist student center in L’viv, Ukraine.
My heart had been set on going to Ukraine from the beginning and I began studying Russian because it was somewhat close to Ukrainian. Then my plans fell apart when the missionaries informed me that they would be moving back to the states and wouldn’t be taking interns in the meantime. Jesus knew what he was doing. I learned so much working at the Shelter and I know it was supposed to be this way.
The email from Ukraine was from the missionaries and they told me that they were looking for an intern to come and work for the summer until they found missionaries to take their place.
Here I sit in my apartment in L’viv. It is raining outside, it’s 10:30pm, and my Ukrainian friends are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and coffee by candle light because our kitchen light burned out, and laughing at something I can’t understand. I smile and soak it in. Life is funny sometimes. I had my plans to spend three months in Amsterdam, travel for a bit and go home. It will be over seven months by the time I step foot on American soil.
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Cesky Krumlov
One of the suggestions I had gotten for my visit to Prague was getting out of the city and going to a quaint village about 4 hours south called Cesky Krumlov.
I had spent the majority of my 20 days in big cities and it was starting to stress me. My country roots were starting to show, so I caught a bus for some R&R. Saturday I arrived at 7 p.m. and overheard some guys talking about a hostel, so I asked to tag along. We found a cute little hostel and I booked a room. I asked the owner for a map of the village, he smiled, and explained that one could walk from one end to the other in 15 minutes. Finally a place I couldn’t get lost!
The next day was Sunday, so nothing was open. I walked around town several times, admiring the old architecture and trying to stay dry as it rained steadily. I had met some Australians who were staying at the hostel for a week, so we talked and played cards throughout the day. I hadn’t had this much time to relax in so long. I didn’t know what to do with myself. We watched Into the Wild and talked.
That night we played cards again, and I made some African fry bread out of left-over food in the cupboards. The Australians cracked me up with their laid back attitudes and love for stories and laughter. About 10 of them were staying at the hostel and hadn’t known eachother previously.
The last day in the village, I decided to have an adventure. I had seen an advertisement for horseback riding lessons in the hostel. The thought of riding horses through the gorgeous Czech countryside appealed to me more than I can say. So, I decided to go for it. At this point Mr. Murphy stepped into my life… Murphy of Murphy’s law that is.
I had to take a taxi to the place where I was to get my lesson. It was 20 minutes out of the village. Once there I met my instructor and paid for my lesson. It was 100 crowns more than I had been told at the hostel, about 10 dollars. That meant I wouldn’t have quite enough money for a taxi back. I reasoned that I could stop at an ATM and quickly pay the taxi driver.
My teacher led me out to the barn and introduced me to my noble steed, noble and hungry that is! That horse nearly yanked my hands off my wrists in an effort to eat grass. We started on the trail, and I quickly realized my teacher, contrary to the brochure, didn’t speak English. I would try and ask questions about the ‘lesson’ (trail ride) and she would quickly cut me off and tell me she didn’t understand. She knew enough English to tell me I needed to whip the horse when he ate grass and enough to ask me when we could trot and lope.
The trail and scenery were breathtaking. I won’t ever forget that trail ride.
Unfortunately, the events afterward are also unforgettable. We got back to the stable and called a taxi. Sure enough, I didn’t have enough money to pay the driver, so he pulled up to an ATM. The machine wouldn’t take my card. I knew I had enough money. I apologized profusely to the driver and scrambled for some currency to give him. He was kind and told me not to worry about the few dollars, but I felt terrible.
When I looked at my watch, I realized I had only an hour to catch my bus back to Prague. I was flying to Amsterdam that night. I went to the hostel to gather my things. Then I made a huge mistake. I decided I needed to make sure my card worked before I left, so I ran to another ATM without luck. By the time I came to get my backpack I was really pressed for time. I ran to the station but was four minutes late. The bus was nowhere to be found. I ran to the tourist information center and purchased the very next ticket, for 2:30 that afternoon. My flight to Amsterdam was at 7p.m. I realized I was pushing it.
At 6:15, my bus arrived in Prague, and I grabbed the first taxi I could find. We sped to the airport but the gate was closed for my flight. I had made it this far in my travels and was about to meet my family in Amsterdam, but now I had missed my flight. I paid a hefty fee and changed my flight to one at 6 a.m.
The seats in the Prague airport are not comfortable. Discouraged I sank into one of them and called my mom. I tried to be a grown-up, but tears flooded my face as I vented my frustration and desperation. I knew missing my flight was my fault and that made it all the worse.
Sleeping in the airport gave me time to think a lot. I thought about how annoying American pop music is when it is blared from the airport cafes at four in the morning. I thought about how nice it was that my backpack became a rather handy pillow. I thought about how cool it was that I had just finished traveling central Europe all by myself. And I thought about my need for a better sense of time management.
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Prague
The next stop on my journey was the beautiful and classical city of Prague, Czech Republic. I took an all-night bus to Prague and arrived early in the morning. The metro was easy to navigate and I soon found my hostel, situated right behind Old Town Square. The parts of Praque I saw walking to the hostel were so beautiful I could hardly wait to get out and explore the rest of the city.
Though I traveled Central Europe to experience a bit different culture and to keep costs lower, the state of the economy back home still meant I traveled rather cheaply. I thought I was doing well until I got to Prague. The city is beautiful and worthy of a visit, but definitely more expensive. The Czech crown was my fifth currency so I was getting somewhat better at calculating conversion in my head and at finding cheap ways of experiencing the culture and important things in the city. I seem to have a tracking device for local supermarkets. Restaurants aren’t all they are cracked up to be. Picnics in the park are the way to go. I am not a museum buff so after one of two good museums, I am content. In Prague, I went into an art museum inside a palace. The art was beautiful and so was the building.
One of my professors had been a missionary in Prague so I emailed him from the hostel and asked him for advice on what I should see. Once I got his list, I made my plans. Like any good tourist, I strapped my camera to me and took off to get lost in the city. Unfortunately, I usually end up getting lost in the literal sense. Prague was no exception, only this time I enjoyed the experience. I wandered through Old Town Square, looking at the beautiful old buildings and churches, then I wove my way through the little back streets to the Carlovy Most, or Charles Bridge. The old bridge is a tourist trap, full of vendors and musicians, and lined with old statues. Nevertheless it is obligatory to walk the bridge at least once on a trip to Prague. I wandered across, daydreaming about what the city must have been like centuries ago when the bridge was part of a trade route. The castle on the hill above the river only authenticated my reverie.
I must have walked about ten miles my first day as I criss-crossed the touristy areas of town. I didn’t go into any museums or buy anything but just contentedly strolled around and watched the busyness of the city.
The next day I got a bit more organized with my day and decided to walk up to the castle to see the changing of the guard and to visit a few different churches around the old town square. I stopped in at art galleries along the way and admired the student paintings. The castle was my fifth to see on my travels, though I decided I was content admiring it from the outside. The changing of the guard drew a huge crowd and I couldn’t get a very good view. On tip toes I’m five foot four inches. .. This doesn’t help in large crowds. We short people try and find a way to deal; Napoleon wore high heels, I weave my way to the front when I can. It’s not so bad.
That night I sat in the kitchen and talked with two middle-aged single women from Cambodia who were vacationing in Prague. They were having some hot water to calm their stomachs from the heavy Czech cuisine. We talked about traveling as women, life in America, life in Cambodia, and it was so much fun! They were the exception, not the rule in Cambodia; single women with careers stable and prosperous enough to allow them such a trip to Europe. Nevertheless, one would never guess by their outside appearances that one was a real estate agent and the other the family businesswoman. Their flowered bucket hats and linen shirts made them appear so docile but as we talked I realized that I couldn’t judge by appearances. I would love to see these women in their home culture, feisty and competitive while outwardly serene.
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Unexpected Friends
“Kelsey, anyone can say they’re whatever on the Internet and then they turn out to be a creepy old man.” This was my mom’s response when I told her I was looking for someone to stay with through couchsurfing.com.
Nevertheless, I assured her I would be cautious and only stay with people who had good references from others who had stayed with them. That is how I met Teodora and Hunor in Budapest. I was a little broke from staying in hostels the whole time, and was homesick, so I decided to ask if I could stay with this young Hungarian couple who lived in a church. I wasn’t actually being very brave. Teodora got back to me the day after I got to Hungary, and her hospitality was evident even in her e-mail. I stayed with them my last night in Hungary and received a true taste of local culture.
Hunor worked as a pastor at the church they lived in. They were having a picnic in a park nearby when I arrived. Teodora invited me to join and we talked like old friends as we stood in line to pick from the stews the ladies of the church had prepared.
I was pretty impressed with my first taste of Hungarian stew. Teodora and I talked about church and missions in the grass as we ate.I felt I had found a kindred spirit immediately. Hunor had to stay and work at the picnic, and Teodora had exams to study for, so I left after the picnic to see some museums. Teodora loaned me her swimsuit so I could go to one of the famous Hungarian thermal baths. That night, I had a good conversation with Hunor about church. The next day, I met Teodora at the beautiful Parliament building where she gives tours. She took me on one of the tours and I learned so much about the history of Hungary. So much of Eastern Europe used to be Hungary and you can see this just by the building materials used to make the Parliament.
Teodora had recommended a specific museum to me called the Terror Haza, or the Terror House. She said it was not the happiest museum, but the best for learning about the history of Hungary. After my tour of the Parliament, I headed to this museum and she was correct. The first scene that one sees upon entering is a tank. The museum goes in depth on the occupation of Hungary first by the Nazi’s and then by the Communists.
As I emerged from the museum that afternoon, I had to sit for a while to process everything I had seen. New respect for the Hungarian people filled me. They had been through so much. The people my age had seen the curtain fall.
That evening, Hunor gave me his opinions of the Soviet dictatorship and of their government today. He said the same people are still in power as were in power during the Communist era, many things are still the same as they were during Soviet rule. I now understood why so many homeless people were on the streets. There were no jobs for them. Budapest is a beautiful city, and I would never discourage someone from visiting it, but, no city is devoid of its problems.
Where do I fit? What is the church to do in this time? Why are there beautiful churches when the people are digging in the trashcans and sleeping in the streets? These are questions I am too small to answer.
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Budapest
I seem to have a bad habit of getting a wee bit lost when I get into a new city. Granted, I don’t usually know the language, I am traveling alone, and I have a not-so-great sense of direction. But, you would think I would learn my lesson somehow. I have gotten better at finding my hostel when I first get into a town, but sometimes getting lost is somewhat unavoidable.
I arrived in Budapest and took the Metro to the correct stop for my hostel. The directions I had been given were less than clear. They said to take the metro to this stop and then walk 200 meters. Hmm… What direction? I knew the address but couldn’t seem to find the right street. What was worse was that I didn’t have the name of the hostel on any of my reservation confirmations and so I couldn’t very well ask for directions.
About 45 minutes passed. My backpack was getting heavy as I trudged the streets of Budapest. I noticed a startling amount of homeless people and made a mental note to ask a local about it. I ended up walking into a random hostel that I thought might be mine. It wasn’t, but the kind, if a bit peculiar, owners let me use their computer to look up my confirmation and wouldn’t let me leave until they were sure I knew where I was going. I literally had to repeat the directions to them 3 times before they let me leave.
Ten minutes later, I arrived successfully at Adagio Hostel. I know I would never have found it if the hostel managers hadn’t helped me. A tiny sign was right up front, and the hostel was tucked back behind a boot shop.
Apparently Hungarians are crazy about square dancing. Immediately upon entering the hostel gate, I knew Budapest was a bit different from Poland and Bratislava. The stairway leading up to the hostel was dark and creepy and the ground was littered with trash. I gripped the staircase railing a bit tighter and walked a bit faster when I saw the bent over old man rooting in the trash downstairs. The hostel itself was sufficient and even had a kitchen with free tea. I was happy.
The next day I walked around Budapest and made it up to the Pest side with the castle and all the museums. The view of the river and the city was spectacular. Hungary has a very long history. They used to control a huge portion of Eastern Europe before WWI. A lot of Hungarians will sit and give a running history lesson to anyone who asks, I quickly learned. They are extremely proud of their history as they should be. In addition to castles and gorgeous architecture, the city boasts thermal baths and roman ruins.
Unfortunately, homesickness struck me in this city of history and intrigue. It is tough traveling alone. I stopped in the palace garden on the way down the hill from Pest back to the Buda side and my hostel. It was quiet and the trees were in full bloom with little pink and white fragrant flowers that let loose in the breeze and filled the air. In this place there was peace away from the hustle and bustle and heartbreaking poverty in the city below.
Amazing how you can be in such a beautiful place and still miss people you love so much.
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Polish Roads
Vodka. Polish people drink a lot of vodka. Polish people are also incredibly friendly. I am not sure if these two observations are at all related, however, they both proved true during my time in Krakow. Within two nights of staying in the hostel, I had 3 polish friends. We sat in the kitchen of the hostel, teaching each other tongue twisters in our mother languages. They warned me that I would probably not be able to remember the little ditty in the morning. I taught them an English tongue twister and we laughed as we listened to each other trip over the words.
Krakow was gorgeous and each building held some story to be discovered. I walked around the town for hours, finding new little treasures and watching people interact.
I planned to go to Bratislava after Krakow and then onto Budapest. At the last minute, I was counseled against taking the bus because a Polish friend told me that their roads were terrible. As a result of last minute planning, I didn’t book a room in Bratislava, thinking that the capital of Slovakia would surely have rooms to rent.
I made it onto the bus fine but there were very few seats available. I sat behind an Australian guy and I believe we were the only English-speakers on the bus. As a result, we struck up a conversation and talked about our travels and plans. Before long, the French-speaking Polish man next to my Aussie friend piped up and started speaking to us in French. The Australian unsuccessfully explained to him that we didn’t speak French, but the torrent continued. Then Aussie made a critical mistake; he pulled out his little French phrase book and our Polish friend was off, looking up phrase after phrase and asking us every question in the book.
I love to get to know people and I love crossing language barriers, but about halfway through our conversation, after our French-speaking Polish friend had asked where I lived and whether I was married, I realized that he had finished off a half bottle of vodka at the last bus stop. He was talkative for a reason and it wasn’t curiosity about American and Australian travelers. Poor man had a 48-hour bus ride ahead, and he was knocking himself out for the long haul. I wouldn’t recommend this method.
We arrived in Bratislava without further delay. I decided to see if there was room at the hostel where Aussie was staying. No luck. The receptionist at the hostel called hostel after hostel for a room but there were none available. Who knew Bratislava was such a popular place? The receptionist offered to let me crash on the cushions on the floor of the bar downstairs. I laughed nervously and realized I had few other options. T The next morning I woke up, groggy and in a bit of a sour mood. I had pulled the cushions from the bar to the adjacent kitchen and blocked out the music enough to sleep for a few hours. The receptionist woke me at 6.
A sweet man from Milan was making his breakfast and offered to share his hot chocolate. I refused three times and still received a cup. I must have looked pretty terrible. That day I made a quick tour of Bratislava and headed onto Budapest. One thing I am learning about Europe is the mass effect of Communism. In Bratislava, there is a small pretty center and it is surrounded by horrible concrete buildings from the Communist era. Most of the cities in Eastern Europe have this same layout. One idea affected an entire continent, and indeed the entire world, in such a huge way.
There is nothing quite like standing in front of a castle, built in the era of kings and princesses, and looking out over the river to a sea of grey lego-like block Communist apartment buildings. History refuses to be forgotten.
As my Ukrainian friend says, the Iron Curtain was called thus for a reason. Nothing got out that the authorities didn’t want to get out. The USSR was a totalitarian dictatorship, much like that of the Nazi regime. Atrocities played out under both regimes. The USSR fell in 1991 and the truth of what happened during the years when it was in power is just now coming to be known.
I have true respect for the people of Slovakia, Hungary, and all other nations who were under the dominion of the Communist Party. They have a long road ahead of them. In many formerly Soviet countries, the same people are still in power, only the formal name ‘Soviet’ is gone and the people may come and go as they please. The economy is still in ruins. May we in the United States support them in their journey in whatever way we can and may we not take our freedom for granted.
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Living History in Krakow
Krakow is a bustling little tourist town, whose old center draws you in and dares you to discover the tales and legends of each ancient alley and building. I don’t think I would have appreciated Krakow so much if I hadn’t happened upon a tour and taken the opportunity to learn about the city.
My guide was an extremely knowledgeable young Polish man, and my tour mates were an older English man and his wife. Together we explored Krakow and learned the fact and fiction behind the town. The town has the sixth oldest university, a magnificent castle with an even more spectacular cathedral, and many more sights that are definitely worth seeing. A church in the center of town square is called St. Mary’s. Every hour to this day, a fireman climbs the 54 meters to the top and blows a trumpet from all four corners of the tower.
Learning about Krakow helped me to gain a foundational knowledge about medieval cities. Why did they have fortresses and city walls, and why was the original layer of the city lower than the ground level today. Basically, it was interesting to me because I was there.
After the tour ended, I wandered the streets of the center, rediscovering the sites and taking more pictures. I went into several churches and eventually wandered back to my hostel. That afternoon, I wandered outside the center to Kazimierz, the oldest and largest Jewish ghetto in Eastern Europe. I was surprised at the overall feel of the neighborhood. There are no Jewish people, or only those who have come after the war to open Jewish restaurants in the district. The neighborhood is quiet. The synagogues are museums and the community center is a museum with the feel of a mausoleum. The cemetery has an admission price, which made me squirm just a bit. Perhaps we should be allowed to mourn and pay respects without paying money? It took me an hour to walk through the neighborhood and I wasn’t sure if I had really seen what one is meant to see. The place was eerie, and this makes sense when I stop and realize what it is. It used to be a neighborhood full of life and everyday happenings of Jewish community. That life was erased. What remains are the stone and mortar reminders of the people who were eradicated in one fell swoop. Perhaps it should be a bit of an unsettling experience to walk through such a neighborhood.
That night I had the chance to talk with my best friend from home, and we processed through life from the internet cafe. I never thought I would be pouring my heart out with a Polish man sitting two feet behind me checking his e-mail. I think European people are less concerned about physical space and even modesty with things like hygiene and bathrooms because they are confined to such close spaces in cities that they get used to sharing space with strangers. Just one more observation from a very young traveler with a lot to learn.
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A Good Hostel is Hard to Find.
I have an unfortunate disability with directions and maps. I didn’t decide to come to Eastern Europe and automatically get a better sense of direction and intuitively know how to read a map… no no. I learned the hard way.
In Krakow, the hostel where I wanted to stay was marked on my handy dandy Lonely Planet map. Unfortunately, I misjudged the scale of the map and thought the hostel was outside the square. I walked and walked around the little side streets of that old town with my bright yellow pack and my Lonely Planet book marking me as the tourist that I was. My sense of adventure held strong for the first hour as I kept thinking that the hostel had to be just around the corner. Then it got dark and I realized how alone and young I was and my bag started to feel very heavy. Pity parties are usually sparsely attended. I began to have a pity party with two guests.
That night, as the rain started to come down in slow sad drops, I cried out in homesickness and prayed for a temporary home in the hostel I couldn’t find. I prayed a foolish, selfish prayer of fear and loneliness, knowing I had a God who heard me and walked with me every step of my way. So, it didn’t make my bag miraculously lighter, but I wasn’t alone.
I found an internet café in a little side alley and looked the hostel up on hostelworld until I was convinced it was right on the square. I even got to talk with friends back home, which was super encouraging. I left the café and walked out of the alley. As soon as I looked out across the square I noticed a huge sign that read “HOSTEL.” I had seen it before but there are so many hostels in Krakow I just assumed that the one I was looking for would be labeled in a more specific manner. I approached the hostel and sure enough, it was the right one. I had passed it two or three times already.
When I went up to the receptionist, I was welcomed in, given the grand tour and a nice bed. It was wonderful.
I settled into a chair in the kitchen with some tea and a book a friend lent me, “Generous Orthodoxy,” by Brian McLaren. In the book, McLaren talks about why he believes what he believes. It’s a great book so far and has started so many good conversations mainly because of the irony in the title. Historically, orthodox and generous do not go together.
I was sitting in the kitchen when a voice with a familiar accent asked me what I was reading. I looked up to find a Dutch guy standing next to me. He sat down across the table and I explained my book to him. He asked if I was a Christian and I answered in the affirmative. We started talking about the Netherlands and church. He had gone to a strict Dutch church and now he felt like the faith wasn’t really for him. We had a realy good conversation about faith and religion.
He left and within a few minutes a British guy sat down and we started to talk about his experience at Auschwitz-Birchenau that day. He was still processing the things he had seen there.
My tea grew cold and my book sat unread on the table, but I gained some friends I didn’t expect that night.
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The Reichstag in Berlin
After leaving my London buddies, I wandered around Berlin a bit, then decided I had better go get my bearings. I went back to my hostel and grabbed my backpack from the luggage room to move it upstairs to my room. I opened the door to my room and shut it again quickly without going in. I was confused. Why was there a guy standing in the middle of my room? There was also a girl, so I thought maybe they were a couple and that he was just visiting her. I stood in the hall puzzling over this new development and finally went into the room and claimed a bed.
The girl greeted me warmly, while the boy went into the bathroom and shut the door. “It’s a mixed dorm,” she said quietly with a little laugh. Apparently we had both booked ourselves into a mixed dorm without realizing it. Nadia and I began talking, and it turned out she was from Amsterdam.
We talked about our travels and about our plans for Berlin. She asked if I was going out that night. I said I wasn’t sure. I knew I would be ready for sleep after riding the night bus into Berlin. A little later, I went out alone and wandered around the city centre. I found a park and took some pictures. I went into the Rathaus (which in German means “council house,” like a city hall) and looked around. When I came back to the hostel, Nadia said she had found a fun, reggae music place to go the next night and asked if I would like to join her. I agreed.
My second day was full of sightseeing in Berlin. I awoke early to go see the Reichstag, but wasn’t early enough to beat the crowds.
The Reichstag building was opened in the late 1800s to house the German Empire’s first parliament. It is the building that Hitler used to take absolute control in 1933. When “Communists” burned it down in that year, he asked the Parliament for powers of war and then was virtually unstoppable. He used those powers of war to annihilate the Jewish race in many places and to persecute and murder many others he deemed unfit in his new world order.
I waited in line for three hours, but I still think the view was worth it. Something amazing happened while I was waiting in line. I have been reading through the beginning of the Bible, very slowly. I came into Exodus while I was standing on the steps of the Reichstag. Exodus is the story of God freeing his people, the Jewish people, from Egyptian bondage.
The story of Exodus is a true one. I have no doubts that the God who freed the Jewish people in Exodus is living and active today. I have no answers for why the Holocaust happened. I can only say that standing on the steps of that historic building, many things came home to me. I know there are stories of hope scattered throughout the Holocaust, but those do not recount for the mass tragedy of the lives that were taken.
What came home to me was the knowledge that I will never understand. I cannot give an adequate answer to the suffering in the world. I cannot say why some are rich and some poor, why some survived and others were murdered.
But I can trust in a God who is bigger and who sees the mass plan. When I was in Amsterdam, I visited the home of Holocaust survivor Corrie Ten Boom. She and her family sheltered people during the Holocaust and were caught and sent to an interment camp. They were devout Christians who shared the Hope of Christ while in the camp. Two weeks before they were released, her beloved sister died in the camp. After Corrie was released, she helped rehabilitate others who experienced trauma as a result of living in the camps. Then she toured the world calling herself a ‘tramp for Christ,’ sharing her story and the hope she had despite the horrors of her past. Wherever she went, she took a beautiful embroidered crown with her.
Let me pause to say I am oversimplifying Corrie’s story for the purpose of this blog, but highly recommend that you read her book, The Hiding Place. It is well worth your time.
Wherever Corrie went, she would take out this bit of embroidery and show the crowd, saying that we only see the backside of the embroidery, the threads as they are being knotted and tied and nothing makes sense. It is a jumbled heap. But God sees the front side. Oftentimes, the worst times in our lives are the jewels in the crown of our lives.
I respect Corrie Ten Boom for saying this and feel it might sound cliche coming from someone else, but she lived through hell. That moment at the Reichstag taught me something.
My God stands the test of time.
Standing on the steps of the Reichstag, I realized history will make itself everyday. We have a choice how we will react or if we will take a stand when troubles come into our lives.
Unfortunately, it isn’t in only the big things that we must take a stand—it is also in the everyday acts of taking out the trash for our moms and feeding our sick neighbors that create in us the character to change the world when our time comes.
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BERLIN TOUR
My adventures in Eastern Europe are well under way. The first stop on my journey was Berlin, Germany. I took an overnight bus from Amsterdam and arrived at 9 a.m. Miraculously, I found the hostel with no difficulties. I stowed my luggage and came to the receptionist desk just in time to catch the free tour of Berlin at 10 a.m. Tours are done by an international company, and all the people converged at the Brandenburger Tor to be split up into groups by the language they spoke. My group guide was a hyperactive artist from Maine.
He was knowledgeable and entertaining as he gave a fantastic tour of all the main sights in the city. We went to the Holocaust memorial and walked amidst blocks of concrete, remembering those who died. We stood on top of Hitler’s bunkers, in what is now just a parking lot. We went to Checkpoint Charley and to the Berlin Wall. So much history was in every building; it was hard to take it all in. Berlin was nearly obliterated in World War II, so much of what we see today is rebuilt to look like the original. The city is still beautiful in its own right,
For the first part of the tour, I walked, listened and didn’t talk to anyone. When we stopped for lunch, I had to find an Automatic Teller Machine (ATM). As I went off to find a bank, a voice behind me asked if I was going to look for money. I said yes and realized I was talking to one of the guys from my tour. We found an ATM and got to know each other a bit along the way. He was from London traveling Europe with his friend. When we got back to the Schlotsky’s where everyone was eating, he introduced me to his friend, and we all ate together. They asked what I was doing in Europe. I explained I was studying missions and had done an internship in Amsterdam.
Jackson asked what missions entailed. I explained I wanted to be a missionary. He asked if you had to be a nun to be a missionary. They had these really confused looks on their faces. I gathered they didn’t hang out with many girls like me.
We started the tour again, and my two new friends were hilarious. They were really chill London boys with no plans in life. I don’t think that is a virtue, but they were definitely peace-loving and friendly. Their next stop was Amsterdam, where they hoped to get as high as possible and stay in a coffee-shop all day. I encouraged them to see the sights instead.
When the tour ended, I pulled out my map and started planning my next thing. The guys were talking about going to a cafe near their hostel, so I went with them. We talked along the way as they asked me about Christianity and about church. When we got to the cafe, they asked questions about Jesus. Why did Jesus dying on the cross magically erase our sins? Won’t being good and following the Ten Commandments get you into heaven?
We talked awhile. They were serious. They said they didn’t know anyone in London who goes to church. There are churches, and they don’t close, but nobody they know actually goes. This was discouraging to me. How can we be so disconnected?
After we ate, I left them and went back to my hostel. I had learned a lot from them. Europe is in deep spiritual need—even as they have so much in material goods.
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Reflecting on Amsterdam
My time at the Shelter Jordan has officially ended. I am onto a new journey. Over three months ago, I arrived in Amsterdam with all of my luggage and a bit of a naive picture of what lay ahead of me. These past few months have been amazing and I wouldn’t change anything about them because I have learned so much.
One of my friends at the Shelter, Elizabeth, has done a lot of traveling. She and I came in and left at the same time. She taught me a lot about adjusting to a new place and keeping a firm grounding even when everything around me is changing. Elizabeth was reading a book on World Religions while we were at the Jordan, and she found a quote that really portrays one of the main lessons we both learned. “If you never mix with people from different races, you will have no eye for detail.”
Before I began working at the shelter and meeting people from every walk of life, I would put them into general groups. Japanese tourists go to Disneyland with cameras strapped to their necks. Hippies smoke joints and are peace-loving. Those are just a few of my narrow-minded categories. Now I have faces and names and personalities in my mind who are Japanese, Italian, French, Spanish, but that is only a small part of their identity.
I can no longer put them into general groups because they are all so beautiful and unique. I have memories with them. I built card castles with Baptiste from France, reminisced about favorite Mexican food with two medical students from Mexico, talked about tulips with Chiang from Japan and have even been invited for a visit to her home.
I am not defined by my American passport, though being an American definitely has an impact on who I am and how I grew up. I am fortunate to have been raised by parents who taught me the importance of learning about the world. My mom used to say that everyone should take a semester and travel the world. I now whole-heartedly agree.
There is a movement in the youth, the idea that the holocaust never happened. This makes me so sick to my stomach because one simply has to cross the border into Europe and they’ll see the aftermath of it everywhere.
I believe coming here has taught me to appreciate my family and to appreciate communication. I have gotten to know my grandma better through this experience because she is pretty hip and we get to talk on skype.
In high school, I hated history class. Here, I eat it up. I will go to museums and read historical markers and investigate random statues all day long. Everything has a story, and many of those stories form the foundation for the story of America.
God has taken me on a long spiritual journey through my time at the Shelter. I am still processing it all. I have learned about moral relativism and about loving people even when I wholeheartedly disagree with their theology. I’m still learning to love actually-I think that will be a lifelong process.
I have learned to listen, and continue to learn to listen, to people when I really want to talk. People are so hungry to pour out their stories and to be reassured they are worth something to someone else. Some days all I did was sit and listen. Oftentimes while ordering a hot chocolate or a tea, someone would just pour their story out over the counter. I haven’t the wisdom to deal with the issues many are going through, so I gingerly take in their story, massage it for a bit, until it feels better and a bit more manageable, and give it back. Sometimes an opportunity for the Gospel would present itself, and sometimes not. That wasn’t really the issue. I am learning that these are people, not just possible converts.
The next journey is Eastern Europe. I have 20 days, from May 1st to May 20th, to travel some of Eastern Europe. I’ll be alone, so your thoughts and prayers are appreciated. The first stop is Berlin, Germany, and then on to Krakow, Poland. I picked Eastern Europe because it is cheap, because I think my heart has been leaning toward this direction for a while, and because Western Europe is so.. Westernized. Eastern Europe has a unique culture. I hope all of you have a fantastic summer and continue reading the blogs I post from my Eastern Europe adventures.
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Painting the Town Orange!
Goede Middag! This is Kelsey Hitzfelder, your Longview Queen’s Day correspondent, reporting to you from the lovely Jordaan neighborhood of Amsterdam. (Jordaan is the Dutch word for garden.) Thousands of Dutch nationalists have gathered to the streets of this beautiful city to celebrate the birthday of their Queen’s mother, Juliana.
Orange Day, known as such because of the royal family Orange and the color that paints the streets on this day, brings a party for all ages and a spirit of congeniality to all cultures in the great nation of The Netherlands.
In Amsterdam, the party began last night, when street vendors, hippies, and otherwise thrifty folk packed the sides of the streets to claim a spot for the all-city garage sale and flea market that took place today.
A stroll through the Jordaan this morning brought a feast for my senses. Orange balloons were strung everywhere and every costume imaginable was to be found on people of every culture. There were some incredible bargains as well. I was lucky enough to be accompanied by two Dutch friends, so I had quite the authentic experience. Bars brought their business to the streets where drunken costumed men sang Dutch national songs and enlivened the spirit of the day. In contrast to the drunken liveliness of many in the older generations, children filled the sides of the streets, hawking their toys and their talents. Many played piano or sang to make a few euros.
Gradually, my friends and I made it to Vondelpark. This large park in the Centrum of Amsterdam is usually an oasis of green. Today is was a sea of bodies and children selling everything from a dance show to a plastic white board that was passed and sold continually from person to person.
The sheer number of people was overwhelming. There wasn’t ten feet anywhere without at least one body on it. Hippies with dreadlocks were selling jewelry, and their children were sleeping on the blow-up mattresses behind them.
As the afternoon draws to a close and the night nears, the beer flows more freely and the children disappear. The city will take on a whole new look for tonight’s festivities. Much like New Year’s Eve in a big American city, trash now fills the street as many have been indulging in the alcohol a bit all day and the remnants of the street market have been left for people to pick through. The music of free street concerts fills the air and dancing mobs are everywhere. The culture is that of youth, vitality, flippancy.
Tomorrow will be a bit rough on many of the celebrants of today’s festivities, but for now- Long live the Queen! Hup Holland Hup!
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Apples and Addiction
An apple hangs from the tree in the garden outside the Shelter Jordan. The tree isn’t an apple tree, but I’ll get back to that.
John is one of my favorite people here at the hostel. He came to work at the Shelter Jordan for a month as a cleaner after working at the Shelter City for a month. John is legally blind. He jumped out of a 5th story window when he saw a little girl drowning in a pool below and couldn’t get anyone to save her. He jumped to save her, but he missed the pool. His face was shattered along with several of his other bones. I have never met anyone so chivalrous or with such a heart as John’s. He is a 44-year-old Hungarian. His broken English frustrates him because he fights for the Cross fervently and sometimes doesn’t have the right words.
His life is a testimony to me. John comes to mop the floor when I am finishing my sleeper shift at two in the morning. It isn’t his job, and he should be sleeping because he actually has to get up early to go to work. But he comes in and takes the mop from me and pushes me out of the kitchen. When I say ‘Thank You!” he gets a funny look on his face and says, ‘Don’t say that.’
John is a paradox. He can be tremendously serious one moment, trying to convince you that The God will give you a miracle to help you see Him, and the next minute, he is copying everyone’s sound effects and using fruit to make antlers on his head. For Lukas, he says ‘OmAha,” because Lukas can’t say “Omaha” right. For Elizabeth he makes a siren noise, because she told a story and made that noise one day.
Last night, John wanted a fifth coffee, but the night before, his heart had been racing from too many coffees, so we made a deal that he should only drink two a day. We shook on it. He came up and begged for his fifth coffee, and I firmly said “No” and offered him a hot chocolate, instead. He gave me a five-year-old-boy-begging-for-a-cookie look and leaned forward, pleading with his eyes.
“Please Kelsey!” he begged.
“No, John. We shook on it. You promised,” I said. He grabbed my neck and kissed it! Silly Old Man.“No,” I said, again, and pushed a hot chocolate across the counter.
The apple on the tree outside is some kind of reminder of original sin.
I just laugh every time I see it. I will forever think of a blind beggar with an intense coffee addiction.
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Monday Market Days
I need to issue a public apology since I have not blogged as much as I originally planned. These past few weeks have been especially busy while I have tried to suck the marrow out of my last bit of time here in Amsterdam. As a result, I will post some catch-up blogs. I hope you will bear with me and enjoy the most memorable stories from the past few weeks.
This past Monday, I was scheduled to attend class in the afternoon and then work the sleeper shift in the evening. I had a grand plan for how I would use the morning, but my plan didn’t work out. I ended up walking around my neighborhood in pursuit of a memory card and rechargeable batteries. As soon as I stepped out of my back door, I saw an increased amount of people on the street and realized, “It’s Monday Market Day!!!”
I had been wanting to go to a Monday Market since I first heard of it. Monday Markets are like the ultimate flea market/Goodwill shopping experience. Since I was raised on a steady diet of antique shopping and backwood’s Texas town touring, I really looked forward to an eclectic feast for the senses.
I wound my way through some booths, touching bolts of fabric from around the world. There were Muslim women with their head shawls and their attentive husbands trying to decide which kind to buy. There were tall Dutch women in packs looking at the piles of resale clothes, trying to find the perfect deal.
I stopped at one tent stuffed full of costumes. My family loves costumes. Our attic is full, and we regularly hunt at Goodwill for new finds; all thanks to a faithful Grandma and mom who valued the imaginations of their young daughters. My eyes lit upon a beautiful violet pair of used ballet slippers. I slipped them onto my feet. They fit!!! I puzzed over whether to buy them for a minute and then realized I would never again find such a comfortable and beautiful pair and they were only five euro!
I walked through the market some more, thinking about how much better this was than Canton Trades Days or any other flea market I had ever been to.
Then I saw it. An old map of Amsterdam. It was a remake for sure, a map made in the seventies to look like Amsterdam in 1641. I brought it to the owner and asked how much it cost. He said five euro and I could hardly believe my ears. I was looking at it, deciding whether to buy it, when a random old man with a very American voice walked up and started talking to me about it. He showed me all the differences between Amsterdam today and Amsterdam 350 years ago. He used to live in Colorado and Washington, so we talked about the States and Europe.
I then meandered on through the market and ended up at a hat booth. I picked one up and asked the vendor if it was a girl’s hat or a boy’s hat. He gave me a funny look and asked, “Exactly how do you define what is for a boy versus what is for a girl?”
This seemed like a strange response to my query until I looked down and took in his denim skirt and brown ribbed leggings ending in huge Goretex boots. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended. There was a slightly humored look in his eyes. He was a huge Dutch man with a grizzly face and silvery gray ponytail.
The vendor grabbed my map and proceded to give me a history lesson of Amsterdam. This was becoming quite the learning experience. He asked where I was from and then told me how he hitchhiked through the United States and Canada for six months back in the 1980s.
We probably talked for 45 minutes, but he had my map in his lap, so I couldn’t really go anywhere. His story was fascinating—even if a little farfetched. At one point, he said he opened YellowStone National Park with the head park ranger who gave him the keys to open the gate and let him go off and hike in the wilderness, only cautioning him not to pick up antlers. In his story, he said on his backwoods camping excursion, he happened upon some poachers and reported them, thereby saving the park’s population of ‘beer.’ He called deer ‘beer’ which was also rather amusing to me. I didn’t think it was worth correcting since I caught his mistake only halfway through his story, and by then, it was too funny.
I decided I really like talking to people on the street. My Monday Market day started a plan formulating in my head… what if I were to walk everywhere with my map or a similar conversation piece. Think of all the people I would meet.
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Good times and good friends
I have 3 weeks until the end of my time working at the Shelter. I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed and how full it has been. I keep thinking about all the lessons I have learned and the memories I have made with my new friends here. I feel so incredibly blessed. Last night, in a dreadful bout of homesickness, I started looking through all the pictures on my computer.
I kept laughing as I came across pictures from great times last semester and pictures with my family taken years ago. I feel so blessed knowing I have these friends here who love and accept me, and my incredible family and friends at home as well.
My grandparents celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary a few weeks ago and won the “Unsung Heroes” award in New Braunfels. I am so proud of them. The award is well-deserved. My cousin is getting married this Saturday; another good friend will be getting married at the end of this month. I am almost overwhelmed by it all sometimes.
Aside from being entirely too homesick, yesterday was a great day. I had my weekly day off and decided it was about time I saw Mr. Van Gogh’s paintings for myself. I had seen Starry Night at MOMA once before and stood for a ridiculously long time, completely entranced. A museum full of his paintings sounded absolutely amazing. I woke up, made breakfast, and talked with my friend Kimberly about where we could go travel after I finished. I will have 21 days to travel by myself before my family comes to Europe to join me for a little while.
I decided to take my day off and go to a thrift store in North Amsterdam. As I was getting ready to go, Martijn, a staff member from the city, asked if he could come along with me. I explained my plan to go to North and to go to Van Gogh, and he seemed eager to do whatever it took to get out of the house.
We started out toward Central Station and Martijn lead the way without my having much say in where we were heading. I was content to follow until I realized we were headed to the wrong ferry — the one that took us to a different part of North Amsterdam. Martijn said he knew of a good cafe in this area of North, so we went. It was fantastic. I had a cappuccino, and we talked about fasting for a long time. Martijn is one of those Christians who really likes to dialogue about spiritual issues, all the time. He challenges me to think about the tenets of my faith, but talking to him for long periods of time is also very fatiguing. We headed to Van Gogh after this, and I had plenty of good, quiet time looking at the paintings and soaking in the sheer magnificence of the different art collections.
That night, I worked on a memory box, got my hair cut and learned to juggle, sort of. Natalie, our new Australian staff member at the Jordan, brought juggling balls and taught Kimberly and I how to juggle. Kimberly had recently taken a fall on her bike that left her black and blue, so she got her bruises decorated as we all sat around in the community house. I wanted to take a picture. There was Kimberly with her bruises-cum-butterflies, Lianne with her sketchpad, Christian playing random notes on his guitar and Natalie juggling in the armchair to my left. I have struggled in the community house since I came, dealing with moral relativism; where to draw the line between accepting people and not accepting everything they do. But as I sit in the midst of these people, I am proud of the strong friendships we have forged together. I am proud of how unique they all are. I’m going to miss them all so much.
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