Category Archives: Eastern Europe

“When” Rather than “If.” My Return Home.

It has been one week since I boarded my plane from Riga, Latvia to return to my home among the hills of West Virginia. Before my departure, I felt a different type of sensation that I have never experienced before in my international travels. Most return journeys involve me vigorously shoving my clothes and copious amounts of chocolate that I will disperse as souvenirs into my bag. After packing, I would run to the airport clicking my heels and skipping like a scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This time around, I packed my bag and sat in disbelief at the airport, depressingly waiting for my departure. Why was I so sad? Was I not excited to return home? Should I feel guilty for not wanting to come home?



The Jurmala street market where most vendors sold traditional Latvian souvenirs and amber jewelry.


I struggled with answering these questions throughout the entirety of my flight home. I had been in Latvia in an entirely different capacity this time around, interning instead of studying. In this new life, living alone and working a 9-5 job overseas presented numerous challenges. At times I felt lonely, coming home to an empty house. Sometimes I felt frustrated and exhausted from a long day at work. Despite these feelings, as time passed I grew accustomed to my new lifestyle. I made new friends from work, I did more solo travel around the city and its surrounding areas, and I became comfortable with my work. I think deep down I am a creature of comfort and habit. While at times complacency can be detrimental to your growth, for me, it also opened doors to eventual normalcy in a new environment. I have grown to cherish my ability to find a “new normal” in diverse settings.

Mostly, I miss my friends in Latvia. As my internship at the U.S. Embassy completed, their internships all continued into the fall. We developed a routine of sorts, walking to the cafeteria for lunch and to the bus stop at the end of our work days. We met for dinner outside of the office at least once a week to discuss life other than the daily perils of office work. Additionally, I miss the language. I enjoyed sharpening my Russian skills in a suitable environment, consistently able to find someone in the market, restaurant, or store to converse with in Russian. The people of Latvia are some of the most accommodating and accepting people I have come to encounter on this planet. Conversations with the local Latvians left me with more knowledgeable about what it meant to be in their shoes. Through my conversations, they passed on to me their culture, language, and history. I adored the unplanned conversations that lingered in my mind for days following.



Climbed to the top of the man made forest overlook with my friends and fellow interns: Alexa (left), Emily (center), and Glebs (right).


Here, I sit in a café in the U.S. recalling these memories, and I must admit I fell somewhat victim to the ills of reverse culture shock. Specifically, I struggled mostly with interactions back home with random people. In Latvia, I did not know the Latvian language, which is spoken predominantly around the city along with Russian. When people in Riga would be speaking Latvian, I would tune them out. Once I arrived back to the U.S. I felt slightly overwhelmed with the amount of chatter in English and found myself often intruding into conversations simply because I could understand what they were saying. Further, I was accustomed to my new daily operations. My wake up, walk to work, etc.; all of it became such a joyful experience. I have had to relearn my old routines and get back into studying and doing school work as opposed to my internship at the Embassy. I became so intertwined into my little cycle and circle in Latvia, which is innately hard to change. Therefore, I sometimes find myself fantasizing or recollecting memories and not paying attention to what is happening before my eyes in reality. I know that this will fade, and I will again find my rhythm, but until then I will continue to indulge in the pictures and memories from my experience. There is nothing wrong with a day dreamer.



Walking through the park in Jurmala on my final evening in Latvia.


Now that I am going into my senior year at West Virginia University, new challenges await me. This year will test my knowledge and emotions, as I prepare for my departure into the Air Force through my commission from the AFROTC program. I will carry with me both my professional and social insights that I gained from my summer in Latvia to the future in the military. The military calls for sporadic moving and flexibility, all of which I have done this past summer. As a West Virginian, many of my peers and friends look at the prospect of traveling, studying, or working abroad as a foreign concept that has no value or significance in their lives. I am here to challenge that way of thinking. Traveling abroad through multiple experiences from language study to internships, has taught me to value my upbringing and as well respect the cultures with which I was not familiar. Stepping out of a comfort zone (out of the mountains of West Virginia in my case) gave me the skills needed to potentially become the best officer in the military I know I can be. I learned flexibility, adaptation, and independence that I know that I would not have gained if I had not taken the leap and stepped on that plane to Eastern Europe.  I am forever grateful for the memories and experiences that I know many others may never have. I recognize my return to Latvia is a matter of “when,” rather than “if.”

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A Complete Transformation

I have roughly one week left in Riga, Latvia, and I am feeling quite unsettled about my departure. The friends and colleagues that I have gained from my time interning in Riga will not be forgotten. As I sit here today, partially wondering how I am going to fit all of my newly acquired souvenirs in my suitcase, I can’t help but feel like time has gone by so quickly. I understand that this is a cliché of sorts, but I am dumbfounded; It seems like I just arrived. But, I can tell that time has passed because my personality has changed dramatically since I first touched down in May.

I had been to Riga, Latvia before during my freshman year, and I had thought that the second time around would be more relaxed and straightforward. I found this to be an outrageous distortion of the truth. I have been challenged far more than I was when I came here at the age of 18. Undertaking an internship shocked my current way of living and thinking. I was tasked daily with assignments that were placed outside of my comfort zone where I was accustomed to classrooms and theory rather than the practical application of my education. Further, this was my first experience living alone. My previous times abroad and even back home in West Virginia, I am always accompanied by a roommate, a host family, or my own loving family. Solo living was more of an adjustment than I thought, and while it is nice to relax and find solace in being alone, it deprived me of a comfortable social setting that I had grown accustomed to maintaining.



As I was walking back to my apartment I noticed a student painting the scenery over the Daugava River. After asking her permission for a picture, she proceeded to ask if she could add me to her painting, displaying me walking along the boulevard.


While there were inherent challenges, there were even more rewards. I feel for the first time in my life that I am an adult. In Riga this time around, I have greater responsibility and more expected of me. At my internship, projects were assigned to me with deadlines, which could not be avoided or pushed off like any other homework assignment, yet I tackled them head on. Furthermore, I discovered that some of your greatest friends can come from the office. Every day I looked forward to eating lunch with my colleagues, learning about their pasts, laughing at their daily blunders, and making plans together for the weekend. I also gained the capability to be flexible. As an intern, I was required to assist in the day to day operations of the office, and in my work at the Embassy, I was expected to change what I was working on at the drop of a hat to complete another assignment within a given time frame. While this was at first frustrating, it taught me the value of time management and planning to account for such shifts in operations when they occur.

Lastly, I developed a deep rooted understanding and connection to the culture that I have spent years studying. I interacted daily with my neighbors, friends, co-workers, pedestrians, etc. that added to my knowledge and passion for Eastern Europe. I have learned of the past through my host mother’s conversations with me about her grandparents. I discovered the hope for a brighter future from my friends looking to build on their education and start a lasting career in the Baltics. Most importantly, I learned the value of listening, attempting to understand and grasp the language, struggles, and stories of a population that has endured so much for their freedom and well-being.

Overall, I am lucky to have been able to return to Riga, and I am already counting down the days until I can come back.


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Summer Solstice Holiday

Well, it was a fascinating long weekend, to say the least. The two-day holiday festivities began on Friday for what is known as Ligo, and the following day, Jani. Both days are filled with many celebrations in Latvia, celebrating the mid-summer holiday, which has deep-rooted connections to their pagan cultural pasts. Riga held various events throughout the city, filled with concerts and a festival-like atmosphere for the public to purchase food and beverages while singing both classical and contemporary Latvian music.

On Friday I decided to do some people watching, taking root on a park bench by the market off of the Daugava river trail. I found the people to be very energetic and full of life. The streets were packed full of pedestrians laughing in colorful attire. Some sported traditional garb in honor of the occasion. I gathered that a staple of the holiday weekend attire is the flower crown. My only experience with such strange headgear stems from pictures of Coachella or any other sort of music festival that you see a Kardashian at every other weekend. These crowns were delicately crafted; each blossom fastened tightly into place to form a vibrant floral ring. I also noticed the men sported a similar piece made of oak leaves. After seeing numerous people with the crown, I approached a street vendor to question its significance and history. The woman, who’s arms were layered with the crowns like a human abacus, informed me that the crowns were not for show but tradition. The wreaths prevent disasters and diseases for the women, and the men’s wreaths signify strength from the oak tree.



The view from the Daugava River looking into Old Town.


An alley way lined with holiday lights for the mid-summer holiday.


A man seen in Old Town sporting a crown made entirely of oak leaves. Such a crown symbolizes strength and perseverance.


The celebrations continued into the late night. Given that it was one of the longest days of the year (it is a solstice holiday after all) the sun managed to stay in the deep sky until close to midnight. The sunset was truly captivating, seemingly dancing on the Daugava river while the people continued to feast, laugh, and sing along with the local entertainment. Once the light got dim, I noticed a small man carrying a torch clutched above his head. He ran down the boulevard, beyond the food tents to a pyre located behind the concert stage that managed to elude me throughout the celebration. The flames climbed to the top of the hay strung pyre. One of my friends accompanying me informed me that it is tradition to attempt to jump over the fires if they are ground level, and doing so will bring you a year of good luck. While I cherish good fortune, I do believe I admire my skin to a greater extent.

After the fires had dampened, the night full of lights continued with a mighty display of fireworks along the river. They were launched into the air from the shoreline across from old town. Each firework burst at the peak of its climb and reflected all of its colors in the surf of the river. It was a mesmerizing scene, with people’s heads fixed on the sky anticipating the bursts of the artful display.

Sadly, my weekend did not conclude as great as it started. The holiday was full of wonder, but the Sunday following proved to be quite the test. I woke up the next day to find that my bike (or should I say my borrowed bike) was stolen from my apartment building. Knowing that things happen outside of my realm of my control was somewhat assuring. The setback truly had its consequences. On my way to work the following day my bus card had glitched out and deactivated, leaving me stranded on my connecting bus stop without means of getting to my internship. Again, I brushed off the accident and continued walking to work, enjoying the views and the smiling faces of the pedestrians I passed. Unfortunately, I had failed to look up the weather for the day. Latvia is known for its occasional thunderstorms that approach rather quickly. Like a scene from a cliché romantic comedy, I trudged my way to work using my backpack as a Spartan shield to block the rain from ruining my suit. I have since recovered quickly and gracefully from my late weekend mishaps, but I enjoyed the festivities nonetheless. Just goes to show you that you have your good days and your bad days in a new environment, and they can turn on the flip of a dime.

Maybe I should have jumped over the pyre after all for good luck?

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Coming Full Circle: My Host Family

It had been exactly 2 years since I had boarded my bus to Vilnius, Lithuania and left my host family behind in Riga, filled with the memories of my adventures and time spent with them. Before arriving in Latvia for the first time in 2015 I was honestly not looking forward to having a host family. I had grown accustomed to a tenacious independence in my first year at West Virginia University. My schedule was fixed, my stubborn perception of adulthood was cemented, and I had convinced myself to gather as much emotional distance away from my host family as possible. This lasted less than 2 days. Gita, Odriya, and Orist welcomed me to Latvia with such compassion and support that I attempted to avoid. My first night, my host Mother, Gita, was working late and was not able to greet me right away. The kids, Odriya and Orist, did their best to entertain me as most kids of age 11 and 14 do by showing me their favorite YouTube videos. I found comfort in their simplicity and approachability.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of fresh eggs and blini (pancakes) lingering in the air and calling me to the kitchen. It was here where I realized that Gita, my host mother who always remained with a vibrant smile on her face, did not speak English. While you might think that it is quite problematic, I embraced the circumstances pretty well if you ask me. Relying on my, at the time juvenile, Russian Language skills accompanied with my above average charades capabilities, we had a pleasant first interaction for which I will never forget. As the weeks went on, every day I felt eager to come home from class and experience the love and compassion that I had never expected. I taught Odriya and Orest how to throw a football and they taught me the value of being a positive exemplar of culture in the lives of others. Gita and I often had tea together, as she assisted me with my homework and spoke with such candor about the history of Latvia and life in the Soviet Union. I gained so much from these intuitive discussions, which arguably solidified my interests in the region, and served as my reason to return. On my last day, they escorted me to the bus stop even though I had persisted that it wasn’t needed. They looked at me as if I had gone crazy. Over the weeks I had experienced life with them, and it had been quite the life indeed. I felt as if I had been there my whole life in my short 4 weeks staying there.



The last time I saw my host family in person at the travel center before taking a bus to Vilnius Lithuania. (June 2015)


Once I arrived in Riga roughly 3 weeks ago, I immediately sent Odriya a message from the airport, it wasn’t 20 minutes before I received a reply of “When will we meet?” My hectic work schedule and the office’s location away from the city center prevented me from immediately going for a visit. Finally, one evening I had my chance and informed them of my free evening in Old Town. We had decided to get ice cream somewhere in the city. I instructed Odriya to choose her favorite ice cream place in the city for our gathering, and she replied: “McDonald’s it is”. She had not changed much after all. We met and Gita ran into my arms like a horse charging into battle, giving me the warmest and most tender of hugs. The children, well I guess “teenagers” now, followed suit. Gita then pulled from her purse a black sleeping mask, for which I had been searching for since I had left in order to evade the long sun-filled nights in the Baltic. After all this time she had kept it for me. “I knew you would come back, and it would be here for you,” she said laughing.

We purchased our ice cream and went to the neighboring park for a stroll. We relived the memories of my visit two years ago as we walked through the tumultuous crowds feeding the birds along the canal. My Russian had drastically improved since Gita and I had first met. We held a pleasant conversation (no charades this time), with Odriya and Orest (who don’t speak Russian) chiming in to translate Latvian occasionally or add in their thoughts on a particular memory. I had informed them of my bike escapades in the city, and they had reflected on the time I had nearly lost my eyebrows to the flames of a charcoal grill I had claimed to know how to light. In this way, we also spoke about our current dreams, and the dreams we once had sought. I felt like I had never left them, speaking to them as I had spoken two years ago. They walked me back to the bus stop before making plans to travel to the countryside in the beginning of July for a relaxing hiatus. I assured them that this time I would not be responsible for the charcoal grill. We chuckled. And like all conclusions to our conversations, Gita told me she loved me, as a mother would tell her own child.



Our barbecue grill out in the countryside, 10 minutes later I would partially lose my eyebrow.


Looking back at my experiences with my host family, I was wrong for first forming a stubborn divide. Going to Latvia in 2015 I put up a barrier to shade me from experiencing what I missed the most: the love of my family. I learned that a host family can reciprocate just as much love as your own can show. My tip: a host family is your way of truly assimilating into a culture. You must embrace your caretakers and learn from them as you are learning in your own classrooms. They are valuable resources for your education abroad and who knows, they may change the scope of your life through their kindness. Gita, Odriya, and Orest showed me that love and compassion reach beyond borders and beyond culture. I am glad to have them present in my life still today. Another update is due for our further visits. Who knew coming full circle could be this thrilling?



Our ice cream reunion in the park adjacent from the Freedom Monument last week!

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Same Place, But a New Adventure

I have been to the Baltic nation of Latvia before, but this time feels different. Before leaving I didn’t know if this feeling was of adventure or of fear. Two summers prior I had done a language study in Riga, Latvia where I studied Russian language and culture. I fell in love with its vibrancy. The city is so rich with its historic landmarks and nouveau architecture. The river, which cuts through the heart of the city, always appears so calm as the local steamboat captains offer discounted rides and sometimes even meals aboard their ships. Riga was calling me back since I had left, so once I found that I had been accepted as an intern at the U.S. Embassy, I jumped on my chance. Yet, as the days approached I realized that I was going to Riga under different circumstances with new responsibilities and new challenges. Pushing these thoughts aside, I packed my things (which happened to be, of course, 10lbs over the airline weight limit) and headed on to my new journey.

Arriving at the airport, I was not greeted by my host family as I had been two summers ago. Instead, I was there as an adult, no longer dependent on others to guide me through my first stumbles. Getting to my apartment was no easy task. Having hailed a taxi, I was unable to thoroughly communicate with the driver. Knowing only English and Russian (Latvia speaks both Russian and Latvian, yet many know English) I feel prepared to tackle most all social interactions. Yet I may have gotten in the car with the only taxi driver in the city that didn’t speak either Russian or English. I am familiar with language barriers and respect the circumstances, yet trying to find an apartment in an area that I had never been before by pointing and waving only goes so far. But, eventually, I made it.



The “House of Black Heads” was a guild for merchant and craftsmen who shared in a brotherhood. Destroyed during a bombing raid in WWII, it was rebuilt in 1999.


My first few days at my internship were marvelous, I assimilated rather quickly and they continue to teach me things that both interest me and confuse me. Yet there is value in this confusion. After my supervisor overheard me talking about the crowded bus I ride to work that often violently throws its passengers across the platform, he surprised me in the parking lot with his old bicycle. The transportation roadway system has proven to be the biggest challenge for me to date in Latvia. In my home state of West Virginia, the mountains often prevent us from riding bikes outside of recreational activities. To be frank: I am not very great at riding a bike, often issuing brake checks that result in me slinging myself above the handle bars. Bikes are normal vessels of transportation here, and this was my new challenge that I was going to win. So far, I can proudly say that I am taking on this new challenge, and fitting in with the other morning commuters with only a few scrapes and bruises.



Freedom Monument. The monument guarded by the Latvian military servicemen honors those who perished during their fight for independence in 1918-1920.


I have found that the second time around in a country, you are more apt to notice the smaller things. I pass average street vendors and notice the differences in the produce they sell compared to the average markets back home. I have noticed the difference in style, music taste, and social interactions between the people that I previously did not catch. I have also noticed more and more similarities between the United States and Latvia. Specifically, I have noticed the similarities in politeness that I have only seen in my small town that I call home in West Virginia. Strangers giving up seats, holding doors, and smiling as they walk past you on the street, all of which are no guarantee in any city. Sometimes these faint gestures remind me of what awaits back home and pull my mind elsewhere. But one glance around at my surroundings and the opportunities that I have been afforded anchors me back into this new adventure.



The gardens outside of the Opera House offer great views when walking through the central city.


I am looking forward to learning about the history of Riga in greater depth (I believe I have exhausted the food circles for me to try). This weekend is the free museum weekend in Old Town Riga. While wandering the city, and exploring the various museums, I also aim to find what makes the people of Riga tick. My goal is to interact, in some fashion, with a new person every day. Whether that be a smile, a quick conversation, or scheduled luncheon, I want to explore this place through the conversations and memories of its people.

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Gilman Alumni Spotlight: Anthony Latta, 2001

We are excited to announce that the Gilman Global Experience Blog will now feature stories from Gilman alumni! Our first alumni post is from Gilman scholar Anthony Latta, who studied abroad in Russia in 2001, the first year of Gilman Scholarship recipients. Read how Gilman has played a critical role in his career over the past 15 years. 

Are you a Gilman alumni with a story to share? E-mail for more information. 

Becoming a Gilman scholar was important for my ability to study abroad from 2001 to 2002 in Moscow and made my career possible. As a first-generation college student, I had resources through student loans and grants to fund my education, but I did not have the resources to fund study abroad, which was considerably more expensive than my in-state tuition at Texas Tech. The Gilman Scholarship made it possible for me to study abroad.

I cannot express how important studying Russian in Moscow for that academic year was. I went from intermediate to high level fluency. In fact, when my parents visited Moscow in March 2002, Russians spoke to my parents in Russian because Muscovites assumed that I had learned Russian at home. The only way I reached this level of fluency was by living with a Russian host family and studying the language for five days a week. The Gilman Scholarship made that possible.



Anthony with Peter the Great in Izmailovo, Moscow in 2001.


Anthony in Sevastopol in 2001.


My fluency in Russian helped me get into graduate school at American University, where I received an MA in International Affairs in 2006. My fluency in Russian then helped me get a job at a large USAID (United States Agency for International Development) implementing partner in 2007, where I initially supported USAID-funded projects in Russian, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan. Since 2007, I have received opportunities to travel in the former Soviet Union and have grown professionally. While I no longer use Russian language on a daily basis in my job, my ability to speak and read Russian was instrumental in getting the job that has led to my professional success. In fact, this year my language skills give me credibility when I interviewed for a corporate ops job supporting operations in Latin America, Africa, and Eurasia. My language skills showed that I have a professional and personal interest in running programs abroad.

While my spoken Russian language skills today are no match for 2002, I continue to read books in Russian – and translate Russian jokes into English for my wife, much to her chagrin. I have now spoken Russian longer than I have not, and I cannot imagine my life without the language. In fact, as I write this paragraph, I look at the chalkboard in my office, on which I’ve written snippets of Russian sayings.

For anyone interested in achieving high fluency in a foreign language, I sincerely hope that the Gilman Scholarship can help you reach that. In my job as a hiring manager, foreign-language fluency and cultural awareness that fluency and studying abroad affords are necessary and set individuals apart. That is how I have achieved professional success, and I believe it will continue to do so for others.

And for all of this, I truly thank the Gilman Scholarship.



Anthony on one of his later visits to Russia.

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Between Worlds

The blog conventions dictate that I shall be known as “Jordan in Scotland,” but it should really be “Old Man Undercover.”  Not only have I sat on a shelf and ripened a decade or two longer than the majority of my peers, but I clearly have the constitution of a man many years my elder. If I were at home right now, I’d be bookended between two cats on the couch, drinking tea. Of course, I can be as childlike as I am centennial. But so can an old man if you stay off his lawn and give him a lolly. The point is, I’m old and set in my ways. I know what I like, and I’ve spent the better part of many years discovering what makes me happy and comfortable and carving a little nest for myself which is conducive to those ideals. So what am I doing in a featureless flat in a foreign land, bereft of all worldly possessions beyond the ones I could fit under the seat of a plane?

Oh, sure, it’s easy to take a holiday from everything that ties you down. Even liberating.  But a holiday, this is not. If this were a holiday, I’d probably be sharing each little oddity, amusement, and imposition with a close companion. But I’m out here on my own, 5,000+ miles from home, with all the usual responsibilities to manage and none of the customary support. I won’t pretend to be having a grand old time of it. But if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have come back.

It’s been seven years since I first jammed myself into a flying tin-can for eleven hours and had the privilege to inhale British-European air upon my glorious extrication. Six years, nine months since I’ve been scheming to repeat the ordeal. Because the one thing holidays can’t offer you is the chance to live like a native. For three months in 2009, I was a Londoner. I lived in a flat in the borough of Kensington, took the Piccadilly line from Gloucester Road station, and sat for classes at University of London. The experience filled me with a new lease on life, countless Bangers and Mash, and one last niggling thought as I returned to the States: “I was just getting the hang of it!”



Hamish in 2009.


This Scottish scheme was conceived during that previous stint abroad. During the semester intermission, we popped up to Scotland on the rail and took a peek at some of its finest offerings: Stonehenge, Dunkeld, Loch Ness, the Castle of Edinburgh, the Wallace Monument, the Isle of Skye, and Hamish the “Hey-ry Coo” (Hairy Cow). I knew before the week was out that I’d be coming back. But I never do anything by halves. For the next 9 months, I’ll be a Scotlander – longer than I’ve been a San Franciscan from my native California. Nine months and no going back. You could make a whole new person in that time. Nine months in the little medieval town of St Andrews at Scotland’s oldest university, rocking the gothic since 1413. You could make twenty-five generations in that.

You’d think that seven years’ preparation would have prepared me. But this newer, more audacious stint at international infil-, er, integration sends me straight back to nursery school. I’ve noticed in my many lifetimes that one of the harder things to navigate in life is anything you’ve never navigated before. From the moment we’re wrenched from the womb, if we’re lucky, someone is holding our hand and leading us forward every wobbly step of the way. We learn our way around the crib, the house, the neighborhood, the campus, all under the watchful eyes of our elders – slowly graduating from one bubble to another like a geographical Chinese nesting doll, all along wrapped in the confidence that we’re right where we’re supposed to be.

So it’s always something of a terror being set adrift without a map. How do I get where I’m going? What am I supposed to be doing? Am I about to get eaten? Good luck and godspeed.  Anytime I have to do something I’ve never done before, no matter the magnitude, there’s trepidation. It’s inevitable that I’m going to do something wrong. Make a wrong turn, say the wrong thing, walk the wrong way, and generally betray myself as an infant without attendance. In the words of the venerable Bilbo, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.” Transplant yourself to a new world and every day is an adventure. Adventure is not about safety or comfort. It’s about living. Leveling. Expanding.

And going to another world is exactly how it felt. In the days leading up to departure, it’s all I could think about. I once drove from Arizona to Oregon to seek refuge at home, but there’s no road between home and my heading, this round. If I wanted to come back, I’d be at the mercy of the aviation gods and the depths of my wallet… and Time. There’d be no popping back for dinner and drinks or a hug, no matter how much I or my mother needed it. I may as well have been stepping through a one-way portal to spend the next nine months in search of the one that brings me back. The overbearing sense of “No Exceptions, No Returns” was overwhelming. Not only did I have to remotely prepare a life for myself to step into in the new world, but I had to insure that my life at home would continue to function without me. This turned out to be a lot more difficult than it had in the past, not only due to the extended duration but to the ways that my life has changed.

You also might expect, as I did, that being older makes things easier. But at least in this case, youth seems to have the advantage. For my first expedition abroad, I was fairly new to living on my own. I had moved to a town about two hours south of my parents, and could get home easily if I needed to. I had a new apartment, a new car, and was the newly adopted father to a couple of adorable shelter cats. I had recently returned to college, and my petition to study abroad had been accepted. I was feeling competent and intrepid. I coerced a loyal friend to house-and-cat-sit for my little London excursion, and soon looped back to the States and resumed my life as if nothing had happened. But a lot happens in seven years. I’ve inhabited different residences and jobs, developed relationships, grown my network, and refined my own sense of place and community.  I’ve also developed the kind of ailments that introduce themselves after thirty, like back pain and an irritable bowel. Even more problematic, my furry dependents, now both nine, have each developed their own health hazards. And, oddly enough, my parents aren’t getting any younger, either.



Home life with my cats.


My life at 36 is infinitely more beleaguered than my life at 29. I had to thoroughly uproot myself from my latest apartment – no one would be house-sitting this time. I sold most of my furniture in the classifieds, and liquidated many possessions through yard sale and donation. I had to enlist my poor mother to take on the unenviable nursing care of my special-needs cats for the better part of a year, and at a time when she didn’t need the extra hassle. I had to settle my accounts, stockpile medications, and say goodbye to friends knowing they might not still be around when I get back. As if that weren’t enough, that old nemesis Bureaucracy had to rear its great horned head: the pharmacy bumbled my prescription, my university-sponsored health insurance lapsed due to my being technically unregistered (studying abroad), my mobile contract expired a week before departure, and the British Consulate stole my passport without informing me.



Starting to pack.


The proverbial hurricane that carried me away from home was anything but exhilarating. I felt like a piece of paper that had been torn in two, with half blown to another continent and the other still wilting, bewildered, back at home. I’ve had a weather widget for St Andrews parked on the home screen of my phone for several years, serving as reminder and motivation; a digital carrot carrying me toward my self-prophesied fate. But upon finally arriving at the pinnacle of my hard-sought destination, poised in the seat of victory atop a double-decker bus, my thoughts were ever in two places. Not unlike they’d been when I’d returned from London, actually. Maybe it’s a side-effect of the portal.



On the double decker bus.


After surviving a series of excruciating flights and a layover in Keflavik, I arrived in Edinburgh on August 28th. I’ve blocked out most of that period, so it’s fortunate that the age of digital documentation doesn’t let us forget. It looks like I did manage to collect my luggage at the claim; I suppose that explains why my new abode isn’t entirely derelict. And I do recall the personnel for the Edinburgh Tram outside the airport being incredibly gracious, helping me sort out payment and route not just with patience but solicitude, and not merely in the paid-to-please brand of the term. Perhaps they were new to the work, or maybe they were attracted to the California sun still baked into my clothes. But the sense of disorientation remained profound; I was as green as the Wicked Witch in Emerald City. I bought a day pass for the bus in Edinburgh and when the driver directed me to scratch off the date, I stared at him dumbly. What WAS the date? Was it still Saturday? Was it August, here? With everything so altered, it was very difficult to be sure.

One of the first things I noticed upon setting down in Edinburgh was my inherent tendency to veer to the right on walking paths when faced with pedestrians traveling in the reverse. I noticed this because those oncoming had an unfailing tendency to veer to their left, placing us on a collision course. It gradually dawned on me that we unconsciously seem to organize ourselves on foot by the same rules that we’re accustomed to driving. Thus, constituents of the UK don’t just drive on the left – they WALK left. Have fun attempting to reformat your walking legs if you ever make it here. And then go to a college town half occupied with American exchange students, and have fun playing human pinball trying to guess between them and the locals!



Leith in Edinburgh.




Another thing that immediately captured my attention were the serving sizes in restaurants. The Scottish don’t strike me as timid eaters, but a standard helping at the venues I’ve sampled would have been sent back in the States on the charge of forgetting the entree. The burger and smattering of fries I received in one establishment looked a little lost on its comparatively enormous saucer, but they were sufficient to satiate my stomach. Visitors to the US must be aghast at the portions we serve, and satisfied as to the source of our infamous battle with obesity. Truth be told, I would have eaten twice that number of french fries (at the least).



An example of the serving sizes here.


Another thing to watch out for here is the predominance of sparkling water. It’s wise to cultivate the habit of adding “tap” when you order a glass of the old standard, and “ice” isn’t bad to include, either. Just as popular is the practice of ordering to go. Virtually every venue will ask if you mean to “sit in” or “take away” – from the afternoon cafes to the evening pubs. In the States, staying seems to be taken for granted unless otherwise specified. As an introvert, I really ought to get a handle on this “take away” trend.

But what has been most surprising for me on this journey so far is not that I have missed my home during this tumultuous transition, but how much I have missed London. I find myself looking not for the comforts of home but to relive the experiences I left behind in Britain. The rustic pubs and tea houses on every corner. The bridges over the Thames, the London Eye, and St James Park. The Tube, the boroughs, and live theater enough to rival the television listings on subway billboards. And I desperately miss my London flat, with its big windows, tall ceiling and cozy kitchen. I came prepared to embrace the British way of life, the one I had jump-started all those years ago. I just forgot how distinctively different two countries that share a continent can actually be. Living in the UK bears certain associations that I’m discovering are not exclusively universal. The Sainsburys grocery chain and Boots pharmacy still exist up here, but I might have to trade in my staple diet of Bangers and Mash for Scotch Eggs and Whiskey. The locals still speak the Queen’s English, but you wouldn’t know it for all you can understand them sometimes.  And the buses!  I have yet to get hopelessly and irrevocably lost on the buses. This definitely isn’t London anymore, Toto. I guess we’d better practice our Scots.



Ready to learn the bus system!

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