Unintentional Addendum to the Bucket List

A 30-item Study Abroad Bucket List hung above my desk at University College Dublin. Next to most of the items are tiny satisfied check marks, indicators of the adventures I hoped to have while studying in Ireland. The Ireland Bucket List is filled with adventures around Ireland: “Kiss the blarney stone. Stay cozy in an Aran Island wool sweater. Stand over the Cliffs of Moher. Relax in St. Stephen’s Green.”

However, I have recently created another long list. I call it the Unintentional Addendums List – experiences I had no idea that I would have while studying in Europe, but memories that I would not trade for the world.

The bulletin board above my desk at UCD, filled with postcards of the places I’ve been, the semester bucket list, and the unintentional addendum list I’ve created along the way

Study abroad students board a plane with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of ideas of what the next four months have in store. Our imaginations run wild with hopes, worries, questions, and goals, yet none can be answered, resolved, or achieved without patience.

My initial Ireland Bucket List provided a loose structure for what I hoped the months would entail, but the scribbled Unintentional Addendum List is evidence of the effects of openness and a spirit of adventure. The items reveal the consequences of openness to new conversations, experiences, bus routes, roads less traveled.

The Unintentional Addendum List is filled with scribbled memories: “Sung Galway Girl in a Galway pub. Watched the sunrise over Dun Laoghaire. Began new friendships with my Aussie friends. Sampled fresh food at the markets at Howth. Learned about life in Asia through the stories of my Chinese roommates. Stared into the eyes of twin boys just minutes after their birth.” That list of tiny and unplanned events is nearly endless, yet it is filled with details that added up to create the biggest difference.

Studying abroad, in its most basic form, is learning both inside and outside the classroom. This semester I learned assertiveness as I navigated new cityscapes. I learned more about the conflict in Egypt from a single conversation with an Egyptian exchange student than I learned in any American newspaper. I learned the value of exploring alone as I walked the streets of a new city by myself. I learned that although I have no sense of direction, there is a beauty in being hopelessly, wonderfully lost.

After such amazing experiences, I have been very nervous about the transition home. This past semester has been transformational and surreal in ways that are difficult to comprehend as I experience them.

However, to ease my transition back to Marquette life, I have created a Milwaukee Bucket List. Exploration does not require a change of scenery; it requires a change in perspective.

With a continued spirit of adventure, I cannot wait to check items off of my Milwaukee Bucket List. Perhaps most importantly, I am looking forward to the new Unintentional Addendum List I create along the way.

Thank you. Plain and simple.

I did the math – 125 days. 3,000 hours.

Upon my arrival it was a calculation I worked out, a number that seemed infinite. Now, I stand on the opposite side of that equation. 2,976 hours later, my time studying abroad is nearly over.

For international students, time is the scariest concept in the world. I have not been blogging much recently – it has been quite intentional. I have about fifteen nearly finished posts written on my computer, yet I refuse to give them proper syntax and publish them for one simple reason – each headline represents another adventure that has come and gone.

Today was full of goodbyes – one last run on campus, one last walk along the Liffey, one last Irish meal, one last dinner with friends.

Goodbyes are just so hard. In particular, “goodbye” for study abroad students is not “see you next semester” or “see you soon.” There is a strikingly real possibility that I may never see these friends again.

Tonight I said one of my hardest goodbyes. Caela and I stood in the center of our residences spewing out affirmation after affirmation, wishing each other good luck, and choking back tears as we wondered if we would ever see each other again. Hug after hug, we resisted the final goodbye.

However, for one last time of the semester, Caela challenged and changed my perspective yet again. “It’s not so much goodbye,” Caela spoke wisely. “It’s more of a ‘thank you for being in my life.’”

While the goodbyes travel out of my mouth and echo in my memory, the “thank you”s take up a residence in my heart. They settle, they latch on, they remain. With each utterance of gratitude, I rest in the comfort of knowing that each person was not simply a part of my past – their influence has carried me to where I stand.

For hours, I could thank Caela, the other study abroad students, and the strangers I met along the way, and it would not ever be enough. How do I verbalize all the ways in which these people have inspired me? How each mere interaction has been a gift? How I have been transformed by their presence?

To each stranger-turned-friend who has accompanied me throughout this semester, thank you for being in my life. In a very real way, your influence has been an integral part of my metamorphosis. Thank you for walking alongside me as I grow and transform. Thank you for patiently dealing with my lack of directional skills, for procrastinating with me as we choose to explore spontaneously instead of study, for exploring our world through conversations, for sharing sharing stories about YOU – your culture, your religion, your family, your life.

With now just 23 hours left, I will not say goodbye.

My dear friends, thank you.

Thank you to Caela and Tess for bringing Aussie sunshine into my life!

 

Thank you to this lovely group of girls for days filled with worldwide travels, sangria parties, and game after game of heads up.

 

Oh Baby, Baby – Twins!

Beautiful, soft blinking eyes peered up at me from a tiny body swaddled in a blue towel. I held back tears as I locked eyes with a newborn baby twenty minutes post-delivery. Mere minutes before, he and his tiny identical brother had been born.

And my god…those boys were beautiful.

During my entire shift on the labor ward, I was so present. In retrospect, I didn’t think once about other commitments or anyone else, really. Every ounce of me was invested in those moments in the hospital.

The nurses scurried around the room charting and scribbling quiet notes on the brand new baby wristbands. With grace and smiles, the busy nurses maintained a soft and reassuring demeanor, even when abnormalities and complications arose. Midwifery is so different than other forms of nursing care. It is incredibly directed and specific. With each new patient, there are a few unmistakable and universal goals. Deliver the baby. Keep the mother healthy and safe.

Shortly after I walked into the patient room during my midwifery rotation, the mother and I casually joked about how she could start her own rugby team with all the children she would have after the delivery. Within minutes, the entire atmosphere of the room changed as she pushed two little lives into the world. During delivery, I found myself continually and subconsciously nodding to the mother in encouragement. There were nine other people in the room, but I felt so zeroed in on her and her experience. A few pushes, some coaching, a sigh of relief, a baby’s first cry.

In the clean white walls of the hospital, I witnessed the establishment of a new period of growth and development in the course of a human life. This was the moment that the mother would forever consider a benchmark moment. Life before twins. Life after twins. Another pencil line etched into the door frame to mark her growth as a woman, a wife, and mother.

And the father – as I saw that nervous father’s visible relief after the delivery, my eyes welled up with tears. He sat quietly in the corner of the room, nervous and overwhelmed. I quietly slid back behind the medical team to see how he was feeling. I put my hand on his shoulder. With tearful, nervous eyes he quietly nodded at me as he held his son. He’s so beautiful, congratulations, I whispered.

I never want to become desensitized to the significance of those moments of raw humanness. It is crazy, it is undeniable, it is real, it is life.

As a nursing student, my most unforgettable moment moment occurred after delivery. As the father and mother each held one baby, the head midwife asked if the family had a camera to take a picture. The father replied that a picture would be wonderful, and without hesitation, he handed me his baby and went to find his camera.

As I received that tiny little gift in my arms, I was amazed at the father’s trust in me, simply because I am a nurse. With absolute confidence, he handed me his brand new child. The trust placed in nurses is unreal. This is what we do – we walk alongside our patients as confidantes, caregivers, and companions in their most vulnerable, raw moments.

As I held that baby’s warm body, in that tiny blue blanket, my eyes filled with tears. He made noises at me as we stared in absolute awe into each other’s eyes. My high school anatomy teacher used to cite the immense detail of the human anatomy as her proof of God. As I felt his tiny lungs breath in air for the first time, I understood.

I have traveled the world this semester, yet I have never seen a sight so beautiful as the one I held in my arms. You are so beautiful, I whispered to him. Welcome home.

Baby on the Way! (P.S. It’s not mine)

I felt like the parenthetical explanation in the title was a necessary initial clarification.

I’M SO EXCITED I CAN’T GO TO SLEEP! Tomorrow I am shadowing as a student nurse in Ireland’s National Maternity Hospital. Fingers crossed, I will be able to see my first live birth.

This post simply documents my thoughts before the experience. Look for an upcoming post about how the day went.

I mean, I can’t even sleep. And I’m not the one giving birth tomorrow. (Again, thank God…)

I imagine how the mother is feeling right now. Probably uncomfortable, excited, anxious, nervous….a whole mix of feelings. If she’s already had several children, maybe giving birth is old news by now. If she is a first time mom…wow. Unreal.

My main concern is my ability to externalize the event. The girls in our midwifery lectures (Thomas is off the hook with this one) tend to squirm and wince when we watch birth videos. Externalizing that pain is so challenging. Since none of us have been pregnant, the idea of labor can be terrifying. Most of the time in lecture we stare down at our abdomens – filled with nothing except the occasional food-baby from lunch.

In all seriousness, my goals for tomorrow are to be a strong support system for the mother, to externalize the pain while remaining empathetic, and to not cry too much with joy if all goes smoothly.

For the family’s sake, I hope the labor is easy and comfortable. For my own sake, I hope I don’t faint. It’s a very real possibility given this level of excitement and nervousness.

Tonight I am sending good thoughts and wishes to the family about to welcome a new little member into the world. Here we go, little baby! It’s almost show time!

WOAH BABY – Trying on the empathy bellies in Midwifery class

The Diary of a Young Girl

Anne Frank’s small red diary exudes an air of reverence. The pages that document the Jewish oppression from the innocence and openness of a child’s perspective lie silent, but powerful.

Despite Amsterdam’s famous attitude of tolerance, the Anne Frank Huis acknowledges the exceptions in its long history of acceptance. The home lies concealed in the back of Otto Frank’s warehouse. We walked through the hidden house in silence, acknowledging the bravery of the family in hiding and the religious oppression that tore them apart.

Although the living conditions alone were incomprehensible, the final room of the house was most powerful. In the center of the room lies the testament of the Jewish persecution. Seeing Anne’s little red diary was a god-moment. Standing alone in front of the journal, I began to cry as I looked at those yellowed, faded pages.

As a writer, I crumbled at the sheer power of that journal.

As a near-graduate, I was touched by the power of having a future and a choice.

As a daughter, I cried for her father’s immense love, adopting his daughters dream as his own.

Yet ultimately, it was simply my own humanness that shattered when I struggled to comprehend the persecution.

In the silent pages of that diary lie memories of fifteen years of a young girl’s life elegantly written in a cursive ink pen. Yet that diary has a voice that echoes throughout the world – reprinted in 62 different languages, read by young and old for generations.

As oppression continues to permeate our globe, there are so many stories that have not been told. Some reside in small journals, but perhaps more importantly, in the voices of the oppressed. The value of Anne’s diary isn’t simply its window into the past; the diary stands as a call to listen to the stories of today.

Although I could never understand Anne’s persecution, I felt connected to her as I stood heartbroken in her windowless pink bedroom. Staring at the eye-level, smiling portrait of this young girl, I crumbled feeling a connection we both understood – the power of words.

…And Amsterdam by Night

From its beginning as a major port, Amsterdam was a town of pirates and sailors who spent days in the city before heading off to sea. The city’s devious and playful nightlife evolved from its delightfully scummy, nautical history. Let visitors be fooled by tulips and peaceful canals by day, as the city delves into risqué behavior at night.

While the city is infamous for turning a blind eye to dodgy acts and sales, Amsterdam’s mentality is a relaxed and pragmatic one. They figure that these events will happen anyway, so why not legalize and regulate them? Hence, the urban streets are filled with a plethora of coffee shops (over 270 in the city), dancing girls, and scandalous sex shops on each street.

Sexy and shamelessly flaunting their bodies, “the girls” (as they are affectionately known) rent spaces in the glass doors lining the sidewalks. Our tour guide presented the legal prostitution as a form of women’s empowerment, portraying the women as businesswomen. With legal regulation and a strict policy against pimps, the city views prostitution as an income and a business.

Along with the throngs of visitors, we spent nights wandered through the Red Light District. From elegantly burlesque to unabashedly kinky, from the Big Momma Alley to Tranny Alley, there’s a prostitute for anyone and everyone. Even our hostel was a former brothel, although you could never tell at first glance. However, the building’s history is commemorated in a corner covered in red lace panties and pictures of the “Dutch Hugh Heffner” hanging on the walls.

Seemingly ironic, the city’s largest church stands in the center of the Red Light District; after a weekend of delighting in the city’s offerings, sailors found the church a convenient place to clear their conscious through repentance before heading off to sea. Conversely, the church found the sinning sailors a prime target for the sale of indulgences in the sixteenth century. That’s what you call a win-win situation.

In the evenings, the girls and I ate mango and raspberries on the banks of the canal. We pleasantly breathed the fresh air, quite different from the smoky atmosphere of the coffee shops. We watched the glittering lights sparkle on the canal and enjoyed sitting among the historic apartments lining the narrow streets.

Amsterdam has an enticing air about it….come inside, come smoke, come drink, come play, come stay. As I sat on the canals relishing in the city’s seductive feel, I smiled knowing that I will be back.

Amsterdam by Day

On the most innocent level, Amsterdam’s atmosphere contained a youthful spirit. Sophisticated, yet serenely youthful, the city is more romantic than Paris. Perhaps it was the spring air, perhaps it was the fresh market food, perhaps the welcoming, yet chic locals. It’s hard to say.

SAY CHEESE -Much like my own Wisconsin home, the Dutchies love their cheese.

The locals recommend experiencing the city in three ways – by bike, by foot, and by boat. The city’s spider-web street layout made it truly impossible to navigate. Given my terrible directional skills, our extra exercise came about from walking in circles.

And oh the bikes! Crossing the street felt like a game of frogger. Look both ways and try not to get hit. The Dutch locals do find “hit the tourist” a fun game to play.

 

BIKER GIRLS –Rumor has it that locals sometimes forget where they lock up their bikes. They simply buy a new one instead.

Because of Amsterdam’s history as a major port, the city welcomed travelers and merchants from various religions and cultures. The city’s longevity depended on a tolerant attitude toward outsiders. This pervades its culture today, easily being one of the most diverse European cities I have seen (contrary to the very ivory Ireland).

In Amsterdam, there are coffee shops and then there are “coffee shops” – the former sells espresso, the latter sells marijuana. If you need a latte, be careful not to mistake one for the other. Traveling with two Seattle girls, we quickly found a favorite café for morning cappuccinos before heading out for the day. Caffeinated and excited to explore, we headed out for the day to explore the fields outside of the city.

The Keukenhof Gardens inhabit huge plots of land outside the city. The gardens and surrounding tulip farms are packed with flowers, painting the ground with vibrant stripes.

Clean and sleek, the tulips are like the Dutchies themselves – tasteful and stunning, but never extravagant.

Come as you are. Relax. Slow down. Stay a while.

Spetzel and Pretzels

A burst of whistles and applause filled the massive Hofbrauhaus Beer Hall as the girls and I performed a dance for the entire room of dinner guests. It was a moment to check off my Lifetime Bucket List.

Perhaps the fellow dining guests were impressed that we could drink our one liter mugs of beer and tipsily dance at the same time. More accurately, they were drunk too, skewing their perception of our dancing.

Munich was starkly different than Berlin. While Berlin is considered German, Munich is distinctly Bavarian. Our few days in Munich could have lasted ages – filled with silly, fun memories.

Just in case seeing the first biggest tourist disappointment in Europe, the Astronomical Clock in Prague, wasn’t enough, we also were blessed enough to see the second biggest tourist disappointment in Europe – the Glockenspiel. Both are clocks. Both live up to their awarded titles.

First of all, the cuisine – Spetzel and pretzels. Beer. Kebab. Beer. Schnitzel. Water (we had to hydrate). More pretzels.

CRAZY FOR KEBABS – Our go-to street food on the trip

In trying to reach the Augustiner Beer Hall, we hopped on a train, which accidentally took us to the heart of the suburbs at a deserted concrete train stop covered in graffiti. Turns out my directional skills are useless on an international scale.

Our low blood sugar prompted four immediately “hangry” (hungry and angry) girls. To fix the crisis, we purchased the little food we could find – gummy bears from a rickety, nearly empty vending machine. The rush of glucose prompted a collapse of giggles at the hilarity of the situation.

We later learned that the beer hall was a five-minute walk from the hostel. Yes, we arrived there eventually. And yes, Augustiner Beer Hall was worth the unnecessarily long journey.

Augustiner beer has been produced in Germany since 1328 and is exclusively sold and consumed here. With one exception – Pope Benedict XVI requested to have the beer shipped directly to the Vatican. He claimed it as “God’s favorite beer” – seems like a valid exception to me.

Trying on the traditional German dirndls, Kay and I debated purchasing some. Thankfully our logical friends reminded us that we hardly have enough money for food, let alone German embroidered aprons and push-up bras.

DIRNDL DIARIES – Once I have a paycheck again maybe we’ll relive the nostalgia at German Fest in Milwaukee.

The peak of our trip was eating, dancing, and laughing too loudly at the Hofbrauhaus. Since all dinner guests sit at huge tables, strangers become friends within a few minutes of sitting down. We befriended a fun German couple who taught us traditional German drinking songs.

PRETZELS, PLEASE! – We couldn’t get enough of the salty treats

After Hofbrauhaus closed for the evening, I regret admitting that we ended our last night in Munich in an Irish pub. Nostalgia, I suppose. (More accurately, convenience – it was right across the street from Hofbräuhaus).

Munich was the perfect end to an unforgettable week. Slàinte. Prost.

Dachau

Dachau concentration camp stands alone in my memory of spring break; it is starkly different from the rest of our journey. With gray sky and freezing rain, the earth cried with us as we walked the abandoned grounds of the concentration camp.

Located outside of Munich, Dachau is now a residential town, with a concentration camp in its backyard. Dachau was the first destination of many prisoners before they were relocated to other camps, most infamously, Auschwitz.

The camp was somber, an intensely personal place. As we slowly entered the grounds, there was a massive wall of disbelief, which I could not seem to climb over. Peek through, sure. As we toured the empty barracks where people were treated like cattle, I visibly winced at the notion of such immense dehumanization. The videos, the stories, the pictures of starved, skeletal humans…unforgettable.

Katarina and I stopped in front of the former “infirmary,” where healthy and sick people alike were taken for inhumane treatments – purposefully infected with malaria, exposed to bio-chemical tests, taken for experimental medical procedures even when healthy. As nurses, we stood in disbelief. The “infirmary” contradicted everything we know as nurses.

As the two of us stood in the middle of the pebbles that remain, we walked apart from each other. Then when the emotion overwhelmed our shaking, cold, disbelieving bodies, we sobbed.

There was nothing else to do. We imagined the faces of desolation and hopelessness. Perhaps we only felt a small sliver of the pain, and even that amount was crippling.

We walked through the gas chambers, labeled “showers.” We stared at the crematorium.

My head could not understand. From my mouth, a resounding, meek, “Why?” quietly echoed through the desolate grounds. Like the prayers of the dead, it remained unanswered.

I left Dachau being able to think only in phrases. I so desperately wanted to write a cohesive journal entry, but I simply couldn’t. I was numb, in state of shock. The few phrases I could muster were vague and simplistic:

There’s really nothing to say…

I sit in a daze…

It feels sac-religious to speak…

After walking through the camp I lost my words, and I grew restless. I continually fidgeted with my coat and bag, as if the key to understanding the persecution lay in the bottom of my purse and I just had to rearrange my belongings to find it.

After some time, we talked minimally. However, gaining a true picture of that day has taken over a week to process. Surely, my emotional processing is still occurring.

I left that day with the quiet acceptance that I could never fully understand the struggle and pain of life in the camp. Unlike many of the prisoners, I walked away from Dachau. Free and healthy, horrified at the cruelty of the past, grateful for the life I have been given.

Berlin

Colorful panels on the Berlin wall shouted messages of hope, peace and solidarity. Amidst the potent artistic messages, scribbled in sharpie was the reminder for our generation.

“One day we’ll be in charge.”

The phrase resonated with me. For young twenty-somethings standing in front of a post-graduate life, this time is vital in deciding how we will shape the world in which we live.

The East Side Gallery acknowledged the past grievances and offered the murals as a reminder and a promise. After years of German oppression and international turbulence, the wall exists as a vivid reminder of the recent history.

BE THE DIFFERENCE – “Many small people who in many small places do many small things that can alter the face of the world”

ART CLASS – One particularly creative teacher took her group of elementary school students to each sketch a replica of a panel on the East Side Gallery.

How difficult it is for millennials to grasp the concept that sixty short years ago this city was divided by a wall, and our world was enveloped in war.

STONE STARES – The East Side Gallery is the longest outdoor art gallery in the world

From a historical perspective, Berlin ached of stoicism, guilt, and a coldness which developed after years of international guilt being forced on the city. The city’s sleek gray buildings resembled metal staples, stitching together the open wounds of the past century.

From our history-filled few days, our focus was primarily on the Holocaust, the Berlin Wall, and the Nazi reign. I am not suggesting that I developed an adequate perception of the city from our short stay. However, heavy historical topics combined with the city’s unwelcome attitude toward non-German-speaking American visitors to create an uncomfortable atmosphere. Our trip was far from jovial, but it was an informative one.

UNIFORMITY – Differing only in height, the stones are a haunting reminder of former oppression.

STONE COLD – Walking further into the monument in solitude, the surroundings became quieter and colder.

The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe was the most notable monument. Standing only a few blocks from the former Nazi headquarters, the monument is abstract and simple. Walk further among the concrete rectangles and the noise of the city fades. It grows colder where the sunlight cannot reach. The visitor feels isolated, anonymous. Much like the persecuted humans, the stones look the same, losing identity in the shadows of the increasing movement toward a regime of uniformity and disillusionment.

The memorial’s creator gave no explanation to the strange, cold artwork. Personal interpretation is everything for the monument’s visitors.

Our tour guide left us with an incredibly accurate statement, “Paris will always be Paris, but Berlin is becoming Berlin.”