THE END

After running 24 hours off 3 hours of restless sleep, I finally made it back to my bed in the Rocky Mountains, and boy did I sleep well. The flight was long, and would have been longer if my little touch screen TV hadn't magically decided to function—I had accepted that I would go 8 hours without a movie to entertain me, but thanks to technology fixing itself, I watched 2 movies and hardly slept at all.

Not smart.

The worst part of the trip home was landing in Newark. I had 1 hour until my connection flight to Denver took off, and I had to make it through Customs, recheck, and security. Naturally, I was put in the longest lines, having to wait forever for customs to clear the lady in front of me and for a man's suitcase to be approved by security. By the time I got through, I didn't have time to re-bag my backpack. I just ran through the airport with my laptop in my arms. With five minutes left on the clock, I practically sprinted to the opposite end of the terminal only to find that they had changed my gate. There were 2 others that fell for this sick trick, so together we ran to the other end of the terminal, making it to our gate just in time to board.

Having not gone to the bathroom in over 8 hours, I stuck my bags in the overhead compartment and headed straight to the bathroom before getting comfortable in my window seat. However, in the 3 minutes I was absent, a flight attendant gave my seat away to a flustered old lady. I didn't fight it, so instead I was placed in a seat between 2 guys, one of which wouldn't keep the window shade open for longer than 2 seconds, even during landing.

Brilliant.

At least the other guy was friendly, telling me he liked my socks. We were friends.

Overall, the trip home was an eventfully long day, making me even more thrilled to be home with my family. 

Returning to America, I experienced some reverse-culture-shock, starting from the plane when I looked down and saw three large trucks driving on the wrong side of the street. Then I remembered that Americans drive on the right side. It continued in the restaurant when the bill rang-up higher than listed because of taxes and we were expected to leave a tip—it's the little details that get me.

Also, the US currency freaked me out: the dollars are extra narrow, all the same size and color, and there are 1 dollar bills rather than 1 pound coins. Not to mention, there are far fewer coins to work with in the American system. Even saying the word "dollar" sounded wrong at first.

But it's so great to be home. The mountains are as freshly snow-powdered as I left them and the Elk—exotic animals, as Tom calls them—are as wild and impatient with tourists as they were 4 months ago. Returning to this wild land in the mountains is freeing and relaxing after a busy semester, and for the first time in months I know for sure where home is. I will always love England, and I hope to return someday, but my heart will always be native to the untamed Colorado Rockies and the mile-high city.

The Week of Lasts

I'm ready. I'm not ready. I'm ready. I'm not ready.


I feel like I'm plucking petals off a flower, hoping to land on "I'm ready," but no matter how excited I am to go home to the beautiful Rocky Mountains, I'm not ready to leave this country.

Just the other day, I was flipping through old photos, reminiscing our Saturday trips and remembering all the details of adjustment into the English lifestyle. It feels so long ago when I didn't know that "2 p" means "2 pence" and "are you alright" means "how are you"—that one still trips me up. I can't pinpoint the day I started feeling like a local, but sometime in the last 4 months, it happened. I'm comfortable with this life. Flat life could have been better though, as an ant-infested kitchen and cold showers are not ideal.

Still, somewhere in this term, England became my normal.

And now I have to say goodbye.

I would be lying if I said it was easy.

This past week has been a week of lasts: the last time I'll sit in Perky Peacock with a cup of chai tea, the last time I'll attend Evensong at the Minster, the last time I'll sit in the Museum gardens, the last time I'll walk the old Roman walls. The list goes on. But I've been trying not to think pessimistically.

Instead, this list of lasts is my closure to a spectacular term abroad. Sure, I may never drink Perky Peacock's sweet chai again or wander aimlessly through the old city streets, but at least I was given the chance to experience Europe at all, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

So as this week passes, I've been trying to count my blessings as I say my final goodbyes. Maybe one day I'll be back. Until then, I will cherish my term in England and my travels throughout Europe. They have been the most life changing months of my life and I do believe I will board that plane tomorrow morning as a more mature woman than when I landed last January.

Tomorrow I wave goodbye. England, you have done me well.

Run, Mince, Run

"Move your bloomin' arse!" screamed the old man with the flat cap. He wore a grey suit jacket with black dress pants and pressed against his eyes he held a pair of binoculars. "Come on Hutchinson, come on! Break, break!" 

The rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the soft mud grew louder and louder as the clump of horses raced forward towards the finish line. Their speed caught the wind as they neared the end, and before the flat-cap man could scream another syllable, they had passed the finish line. 

"Who won!?" He threw his binoculars down against his chest.

On the big screen, the number 1 flashed. First Mohican had won the race! 

"Bloody horse," the man mumbled as he stumbled away towards the Totepool, counting the money in his pocket. 

And so ended the first race of the day. With a total of 7 races, there was a pattern to the course of events: crowds piled near the betting booths and the bars, and when the 2 minute races would start, they filed up into the stands and pressed against the railings, then when the race ended, they would crowd back towards the betting booths and bars. Over and over again, pockets emptied and pockets filled.

But betting isn't everything to the races, not for me at least—my money stayed safely in my wallet. The races are an elegant, high-class social event where the women dress in heels and hats and the men wear suit jackets and slacks. Just like any other sport, it's an enjoyable game to watch. In warm-ups, the horses look rather awkward, prancing around with high hooves and flailing their necks, and the jockeys squat on top with their butts wagging high in the air. But their speed is fantastic. When the horses zoom past the spectators stands, it's like they're flying, their hooves barely touching the ground—they just zip by in a stream color, thumping through the mud. 

The fourth race was the biggest with a winning prize of 106,650 pounds—The Duke of York, it was called. This was the one race I bet on. With friends, of course. Over desert. The deal was, whoever lost the race had to make desert for the others, creating 3 winners and one loser. 

My horse: Mince.

Between the four of us, none of our horses won, but Liza's horse was injured and fell in last place, never finishing the race. Though my horse still didn't win the race, he did well enough to win me a desert! Thanks Mince!

Though a perfectly wonderful day at the races, it had its struggles. I had made the terrible choice of wearing a flowy lace dress on a cold, windy day with a Velcro-flap raincoat. Let me tell you, lace and Velcro is a bad combination, especially on a windy day. I can laugh about it now, but it wont happen again. 

With scones and Yorkshire tea in the morning, the horse races in the afternoon, and rain, rain, rain, it was the perfect British day. And I still have money in my pocket, mostly.

Whales n' Wales

Like whales, we traveled through the wet streets of Llandudno at our own sweet and sluggish pace, enjoying the tiny Welsh city on our own watch. Every other weekend trip we've zipped through the cities, knocking out every museum and tour in only 2 days, but not this weekend. This time we slowed our step, gliding along like the giants of the sea, free and wild.

Sadly, we didn't actually see any whales during our stay in Wales, but I sure felt like one. Having only slept 3 hours the night before and waking up at the crack of dawn to catch our 6:55 a.m. train, I was a bit more than sluggish. My eyes were heavy as if they were 2 sizes too big and my legs were jello, unable to control my steps—I felt a bit like an awkward giant. But at least our schedule in Wales was optional. The trip was more of a retreat, a peaceful final hurrah to finish our busy semester; so many of us spent hours lazing around in our hostel lounge sprawled out on the red-leather couches, laughing with each other as the rain spat outside. There was nothing we needed more than a relaxing weekend.

We did push on, however, and saw the city while we had the chance. Because Wales is a part of the United Kingdom, the cross over the boarder was not a big event; in fact, the only way we knew we were in Wales was by the names of the cities our train rode through.

Bodelwyddan

Llysfaen

Llanddulas

Halkyn

Good luck pronouncing those. Llandudno, our final destination, is actually pronounced, "clan-dood-no." 

Llandudno is a beautiful city located on a peninsula at the topmost part of Wales and tucked away in the Llandudno and Ormes Bay of the Irish Sea. The streets are lined with pastel and cream-colored buildings, giving the city a light, seaside feel, and all around town were wooden statues of Alice in Wonderland characters, as the "real" Alice once holidayed in this little Welsh city. Big colorful light bulbs strung across the main streets and old fashioned hotels sat on every corner. Bordering one side of the town was the Great Orme, a limestone and copper ore cliff, where a street of quaint, cream houses crawled up the side like a snake winding in the crevices. Stretching all along the coast, the buildings curled with the geography of the beach, lining the perimeter with pretty white buildings and fancy iron railings. 

Though a beautiful city, the physical geography of the area was the winner I fell in love with. The first day we hiked up the Great Orme and looked out over the rolling hills stretching for miles—in the distance we could see England's Lake District—and far out in the sea there was a field of windmills blowing in the wind. The wind at the top was wicked, but when the sun shone, it wasn't too cold. Sadly, the sun wasn't out for too long and every other hour the clouds would spit rain at us. Still, I was happiest just sitting on a rock, looking out at the indescribably stunning views. No camera can capture the full affect. 

The last day in Wales, we hopped on a quick train to the nearby city of Comry where a giant castle towered over the city. The city reminded me a bit of York, as it was walled-in with narrow streets and stone bars (gates), but again, the views outside of the city made my heart glow. In Comry we took a hike way up to the top of a cliff, and on our walk towards the trail, we wandered through a small neighborhood with steep streets, blooming trees, and low-hanging branches. For a while I felt like I was in Michigan. It felt homey and comfortable and if it was up to me, I would have moved right in with that man gardening behind his white picket fence. The hike was long and intense, but mostly because of the killer winds. With gusts of 30 mph, we struggled sometimes to stand, but the views were well worth the effort. From the top we could see Llandudno in the distance, the Great Orme, the field of windmills, the Lake District, and miles after miles of pastured land, rolling far off into the hazy horizon. 

By the end of the trip, I was well relaxed and caught up on sleep; my legs were only jello because of the extensive hiking rather than from the sleep-deprived exhaustion. It was our final hurrah, and a sweet goodbye for many. I'm going to miss our group of 25—at first we were overwhelmingly large, but now I wouldn't have it any other way—but most of all, I'm going to miss the natural beautiful of this great kingdom.  

Bittersweet

With less than a month left to enjoy this wonderful country, I'm learning to savor every day as if its my last in England, enjoying each moment I may have otherwise overlooked. The other day we went for dinner at The Lion and the Lamb, a local pub with winding hallways and endless rooms, and a bathroom so narrow that when you wash your hands, the hand-dryer starts blowing on your bottom. I laughed behind the locked door, amused at the British-ness of the situation

Some days are easy to love, especially the days where the sun shines bright in the blue sky with a high of 15 degrees C (60 degrees F for those Americans reading). These days, the daffodils and tulips are blooming with brilliant vibrancy, coloring the hills along the old Roman walls yellow—the spring fever is putting everyone in a good mood. I took a walk through town the other day, enjoying the sun beaming down on my bare arms, and all around people walked with a skip in their step, laughing with genuine joy, and smiling honestly. Delivery men laughed with shop owners, hollering, "Good day to ya," and an elderly couple walked hand in hand, smiling at me like old friends.

But some days are harder to love, as papers and exams are piling up and the desire to be with family strengthens. Before the term, I was advised to work ahead on big projects so the stress of 10,000 words looming over my head would not ruin my last few weeks, but as most students do, I procrastinated, losing myself in the daily activities of English life that do not involve sitting behind a computer. I find it hard to sympathize with myself, so I won't whine.

The truth is, every day is not as fantastic as the pictures make it look. Yes, it is a dream and I thank God for this opportunity, but every week has at least one gloomy day, some more than others. Naturally, however. It's all natural. The gloomy days only make the enjoyable ones that much lovelier.

Nerd Alert

One night when I was 11, my mother took me to the local library to browse through the collection of films for our movie night. Indecisively, we stood for a half hour, staring at the titles and shrugging off each pick, until mom pointed at a movie I never thought to suggest: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. We went home that night, popped in the disk and sat down with a bowl of popcorn. But only 20 minutes into the movie, the disk skipped and froze from the giant fingernail scratch on the back—I don't know what we expected from a library DVD. 

Disappointed by the ruined evening, I was more upset with not finding out what Hagrid was going to say to Harry about this 'he who must not be named' character. "Why don't we read the book?" Mom cleverly suggested, and so we sat in the dark hours of the night, reading aloud the first 4 chapters. From that night, I was hooked. 

I practically grew up with Harry—when he was 11, I was 11; when he was 12, I was 12; when he was 13, I was 13...etc.—so naturally, this Saturday's day-trip was a huge excitement, as we hopped on our Ingleby  coach and rode to Alnwick Castle, the filming location for the first two Harry Potter films. 

Alnwick Castle is home to the Duke and Dutchess of Northumbria of which the Percy family has carried the title for 700 years—Ralph Percy is currently the Duke. Besides the rich history of the ruling family and the cultural history of the British class system, the castle is most famously known for the Lion arch and the Outer Bailey courtyard, both locations for the Harry Potter films. 

The Lion arch was filmed as the entrance to Hogwarts,  

and the Outer Bailey Courtyard is the location where Harry first learned to fly.

Geared more towards a younger audience, the castle was full of cheap touristy attractions and silly theatrical quests and tours—but I loved every crazy minute of it. Plus I learned how to fly a broomstick which made my day. 

I'll teach you real quick. First, hold your broomstick at your side, then in a swift motion throw yourself into the air, mounting your broom while screaming "MOUNT!" You should now be standing in a crouched position with one arm out, ready to fly. Next you need to run forward, zigzagging side to side making sounds like zoom zoom, or wiiizz wiiiz. 

As you can expect, we looked real cool out there.

Though nerdy and ridiculous, the day was full of laughter and "HOLY COW, YOU'RE TRUE" moments, as I remembered scenes from the movie: we saw the shack which Hagrid's hut was built around, the forbidden forest that is actually quite small in real life, and the courtyard where Harry and Ron crashed the flying car into the Womping Willow. 

All day, I was brought back to those first moments when I sat by my mother's side, listening to her smooth voice, and I realized that we're never too old to have a little fun.  

FOOTball, not Football

Glancing nervously at the ticking clock, I sat on the painfully slow train as it crawled into the Manchester station. We had not prepared for our train to arrive late, and though 5 minutes doesn't seem to affect most people, we had a serious time crunch. The second the doors shot open, we were out and flying through the station platforms—I fell behind, as I battled with a sticky candy bar wrapper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It was a serious struggle and when I finally saw it fly off with the wind, a man hollered, "It's still there!" I looked down and sure enough, only half the wrapper had let go. I didn't even have the pleasure of saying it was my own wrapper; then I would have at least enjoyed its chocolaty goodness. 

Though I had just been in Manchester two days prior visiting a friend, I was completely stumped on how to navigate the city—it didn't help that we left the station through the wrong exit, wandering down some street with an unfamiliar name. "This doesn't match my directions!" we panicked. Three of us had prepared directions to our destination, and all three of our directions failed.

Finally, after much effort, we made it to the Etihad Football Stadium where Manchester City faced Wigan Wednesday night.

I don't think I've ever walked that fast and that far in my life, and after running the last stretch, we didn't even make it in time for the kickoff. All we heard was the cheering crowd from our spot in the ticket line, but that's something at least. Our disappointment wore off when we found that we had fantastic seats with a great view, and almost instantly we were wrapped up in the excitement of sitting a few yards from the players—in comparison to watching on the tele', the crowd screamed louder, the players ran clumsier, and the wipe-outs sounded harsher. The sport came alive for me, as I had never been a spectator at a British football game before, or as I say since I'm American, soccer—the guys beside us smirked, probably thinking, "crazy Americans calling it soccer."

"GO MAN CIT-AAAAAAYYY!!" the crowd cheered and roared, but no matter how loud the crowd hollered, the score remained 0-0. Beside our freak show in getting to the stadium, the most exciting thing all night happened with only 2 minutes left in the game: Man City shot the winning goal!

At the end of the night after 2 hours of football, we hopped back on our train and rode home. It was a short, sweet, and successful evening, coming home with sore calves and a win to celebrate. The things I love about England: football, trains, and city-hopping excursions. 

Home is a Complicated Subject

As humans, we've all experienced broken hearts, but a broken heart heals. It's a stretched heart that hurts the most, like walking a mile on a pulled muscle.

Living in England and traveling Europe has stretched my heart further than I ever anticipated, and I was completely oblivious until a week ago when I set foot back in England, walking through the Manchester airport. It felt like I was home. I knew the language and the routine, I could read the signs, and navigate my surroundings, and I didn't have to ask a question 5 different ways to get an answer—I was home, back where I'm comfortable. 3 months ago, I flew into the same airport and walked through the same customs office, scared out of my mind and excited beyond explanation because for the first time in my life, I was out of my comfort zone. I was in a strange country where the people talk prettier and the signs are worded differently ("Way Out" = Exit). When I first arrived in England, I was a tourist, but when I came back from touring the non-English speaking continent, I fit right in with the British—after the customs guy approved my passport, of course. Apparently, the French didn't think to look at the page they slapped their ink on before adding another stamp; they just covered England's stamp right up. Way to go, France. 

Walking the homestretch back to my York flat that warm spring evening, I realized exactly how comfortable I've become in this country, and how terribly I'll miss it when I leave in a month. After 3 weeks of solid travel, exploring the boundaries of 6 countries, 5 cities, and 15 small towns, I've experienced what it feels like to travel with little communication and comprehension, making the culture shock I felt in England seem minor. Though I didn't want to leave France or Normandy, Belgium or Switzerland, and definitely not the motherland, returning to England became a whole new adventure, a whole new strain on my already torn heart because though I feel at home in England, I can't say it's my home. 

I have roots in the Netherlands, I have a heart for England, and I belong in Colorado, so where do I go from here? No matter where I call home, my heart will always be stretched across oceans. Traveling is an incredible adventure and though I envy World Travelers, I do not envy the daily strain on their hearts, falling in love with countries they can't call home. 

Colorado

The Netherlands

                                       



                                                                 

Pick a Place, Any Place

Conveniently, a close friend from high school is studying in southern England this term, so naturally we had to meet up. But not in England, strange as it seems. Instead, we picked a random spot on the map, closing our eyes and pointing our finger down on any old European city!

Our destination: Geneva, Switzerland.

I knew almost nothing about the city before flying over, except that it's surrounded by the snowy Swiss Alps that may or may not be visible depending on the weather. Surprisingly, I didn't even know Geneva was linked to John Calvin, the major reformer my college in Michigan is named after. It was quite an exciting find. Therefore, because my knowledge of the city was little, my expectations were low, and because my expectations were low, my reaction towards the city was out of control—I squealed and jumped like a child. 

Flying into Geneva, the sky was perfectly clear with a few wispy clouds, and the rolling hills alongside Lake Geneva were speckled with little villages and large castles. As a backdrop, miles of high peaks covered in thick layers of snow stretched into the horizon—no matter which way the plane turned, the Alps were always in sight, surrounding Geneva on every side. Upon landing, the sunny sky proved to be honest with a heat wave of 60 degrees Fahrenheit—that's about the warmest England gets all year—so I quickly stripped off my coat, realizing that 5 layers was overkill, as Switzerland is not nearly as cold as the skiing advertisements make it look. I should have thought that through.

Tired from traveling, lethargic from the sun, and deprived of lounging, we (KJ, KJ's friend, Layla, and I) walked to a nearby park where we found a solitary stone beach covered with sea glass—a wonderful resting haven. Just across the lake sat luxurious chateaus with large mowed lawns on the much-too-green-to-be-true hill, and towering behind were the snowy peaks, including Mont Blanc (the highest mountain in the Alps). The homes, we learned later, were owned by authors such as Mary Shelly, the author of Frankenstein, and today a few are owned by Arabian and Indian princes. To our right, hundreds of boat masts and tall French-style buildings lined the lake, wrapping around the end of the lake like a U, and shooting high into the sky was the Jet d'Eau fountain, famous for reaching a height of 460 feet into the sky—though high, it doesn't quite compare to the 15,000 foot Mont Blanc towering behind. 

Being in Switzerland felt quite similar to France, as they speak French and use francs as their currency (France doesn't even do that anymore!) Even the buildings looked French with their delicate stone carvings and rod iron railings. But there were differences between the two countries: every other block there was an authentic Swiss chalet with elegant wood carvings, and sharp wooden roofs; the water was clear and fresh, and it wasn't uncommon to drink tap water--in fact, there were fancy drinking fountains on every street; and the chocolate was pure heaven, the aroma filling the streets from the surplus of chocolate shops. 

Chocolate is to Switzerland as wine is to France, as waffles are to Belgium, and as pannekoekens are to the Netherlands. 

In the three days that we lived and breathed the fresh Swiss air, we became quite familiar with the streets—though a large city, it's not impossible to master by foot. But my favorite Geneva adventure took place on the  edge of the city limits (and outside the country, as we found out afterwards). Early Friday morning, we hopped on a bus that dropped us off in, what felt like, small town Geneva where the streets were empty and the houses had lawns and fences. Only locals were around. We set out along a deserted road following the rail road tracks where signs, written in French, pointed us towards "Telepherique du Saleve." We only hopped that meant Cable Car to Mountain Saleve, otherwise, we were hopelessly lost—the giant cables up the mountain ahead was a fairly obvious clue, though. At last, we arrived at the station where we rode way up high to Mount Saleve, just the 3 of us and the conductor, stepping out on top where the sun was hot and views were breathtaking.

We spent hours on the mountain, hiking along unmarked paths where donkeys roamed in the open grass and abandoned houses sat forgotten, and when the sun sat directly above us, we picnicked in the woods with a beautiful view of what we thought might be France. With a baguette, an orange, and a box of strawberries, we basked in the beauty of the Swiss mountains. Hours later, on our ride back down the mountain, my phone buzzed, and I noticed a serious of missed texts. The newest read, "Welcome to Switzerland. -T Mobil." A bit puzzled, I flipped down through the messages to the first missed text. It read, "Welcome to France."


So, as we sat with our bread and fruit earlier that day, gazing out at the France Alps, we were sitting on French turf all along, canopied by French trees as clueless picnickers. Life doesn't get much better than that. 

Geneva was beautiful: the city, the mountains, the lake, and even our hostel which felt like a mini hotel. If only we could afford it, we might have moved right in. 

The Motherland

Of all the countries I've set foot in, I now have a favorite: the Netherlands. Of course I love England—I wouldn't be living there if I didn't—and France, and Normandy, and Belgium were beautiful, but there's nothing like the homeland. Almost 100% Dutch, I can claim my origins in this country regardless of whether I speak the language—Dutch is not a pretty language anyways. It is because I have roots in this beautiful land that I fell in love with it.

Our first stop after crossing the border of Belgium, was Oost-Souburg—a small village on a south-western peninsula where hardly any tourists venture. It seemed a strange city to enter into our GPS, but we have historical connections that led us down the road. Oost-Souburg is the city where my great-grandfather grew up in the early 1900's, until age 7. Before passing away, he wrote a descriptive memory of his childhood home, describing the quaint little village from a child's perspective, and alongside his words, he drew a rough sketch of his street. He drew a canal, a bridge, a windmill, and a steeple, writing "it may have been a Catholic church, but I do not know." Driving through the city, we got lost several times, turning the wrong way down one-way streets, and driving in circles in the round-about, but at least we had a French license plate (this way the locals would blame the French for being crazy tourists). We were also quite fortunate that there were few cars on the road, as almost everyone rides their bicycle. At last we found the street, labeled Kanaalstraat, translated to Canal Street, where we found the canal, the bridge, the windmill, and a steeple that a 7 year-old could have easily mistaken for a Catholic church. We had found my great-grandfather's street. 

Our connection to the city was strong and nearly brought my mother to tears, but it wasn't just the history we connected with. The locals were also extremely friendly, welcoming us into their peaceful town and taking time on their Saturday afternoon to assist us in finding information. Their hospitality was genuinely friendly and for the first time since leaving America, I didn't feel like a tourist. I belonged. (Read Project 21, #8). 

Over a course of 3 days, I fell in love with small town Netherlands. After Oost-Souburg, we visited a number of little towns including Oudewater where the houses leaned forward and the canals ran brown—we saw our first stork nest on top of the church, and I was quite surprised by its size; Soestduinen where we slept in the outskirt forests in a luxurious hotel surrounded with biking paths; Giethoorn which is the Dutch Venice with narrow, winding canals, arched bridges, and tiny cottages with thatched roofs—the peace and quiet of the simple town was refreshing; Elburg where we ate gelato for dinner; and Harderwijke where the constantly red street-lights and road blockades refused to let us drive through the city center—again, we found ourselves driving the wrong direction on one-way streets. The towns were endless. 

Oudewater

Giethoorn

Though we could have explored these small towns for days, we made our way towards Amsterdam, stopping for a few hours in Keukenhof—the famous tulip garden. As spring had only just begun, the tulips were fresh bloomers outside, peaking their heads up from the ground. However, in the indoor greenhouses, the fantastic tulips stood as tall as my waist, blooming with a vibrant radiance. For hours, we wandered the beautifully decorated gardens, admiring the signs of spring and appreciating the warm sun on our faces.

 

I finally got to pet a spring lamby!

By afternoon, we were in the busy city of Amsterdam, riding down the city canals lined with tall skinny buildings. The canal system, a much larger scale of Giethoorn's, is brilliantly engineered, resembling a bike wheel or spiderweb, with large outside rings and smaller connecting spokes. Bikes lined every fence, piling up around every bike-rail, and houseboats lined the canals, one after another, in an endless chain. And at night, the city was gorgeous, bridges lit up with strings of white bulbs and jazz bands playing on street corners. Though many cars aren't seen during the day like most big cities, hardly any are seen at night, creating a peaceful atmosphere perfect for a moonlight walk.

The highlight of Amsterdam was the Anne Frank museum, where we walked through the tight rooms of a classic Dutch home, up the ladder-stairs and through the bookcase door into a small-scale apartment. The pictures Anne pasted on her wall were still hanging, wrinkled from the paste as if hung only yesterday—her diary-voice whispered in my head like a ghost in the room. Walking through the museum, I was fully engaged from start to finish, reading every sign and watching every video, and I completely lost track of time. No museum has ever sucked me in that far before. 

The Netherlands was my favorite country, connecting with me on many levels, so when I said goodbye, I shed a few tears. But saying goodbye to my parents at the end of Amsterdam was far more difficult, as I wanted to continue sharing my experiences with them rather than write my experiences to them as I do to many. However, our memories of our time in the motherland will last a lifetime and I will cherish the adventures forever!