So I’m sitting on a plane from Geneva to London at the butt-crack of dawn, exhausted, broke, probably smelly, and very content. How do I describe the myriad of experiences I’ve enjoyed and lessons I’ve learned from my trip to Europe? I don’t just mean my trip to the continent, either, I mean over this whole semester abroad. Since I’ve left the States, I’ve done thousands of things that I’d never done before: I’ve climbed mountains in 5 different countries, I’ve explored castles, cathedrals, alleys, closes, lochs, mountain trails, country roads, and underground crypts and passages, I’ve tried local beer from 7 different nations, I’ve seen plays at the globe and Stratford, I’ve wandered through strange cities, and gotten utterly and wonderfully lost. I’ve roasted and carved turkeys and chickens, planned my first Thanksgiving feast, tried foods, wines, beers, and bread I’ve never heard of, and I’ve laughed with, cried with, eaten with, and lived with so many new people. I’ve paid homage to some of my academic and literary idols, visiting their homes, their colleges, their old haunts and pubs, and even their graves.
I cannot begin to convey how all these things have affected me. How can I describe St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the Alhambra? How can I explain the serenity, the peace, or the spiritual weight I felt there? How can I express how learning at the feet of scholars like Francis Warner, Barry Webb, or Julia Cresswell has so fundamentally changed my studies, my reading, my thoughts and my writing? How can I put to words the majesty, the grandeur, the magnificence of the heaven-shaped landscapes that I’ve seen since coming here? I’ve seen the cliffs of Moher’s staggering peaks, the snow-crowned Swiss Alps, the view from Arthur’s Seat, the tranquil depths of Loch Ness, the clear bay of Le Leman lit up with the lights of the city, and countless other wonders that my weak words cannot ever capture. How can I put to words the incredible sense of awe, humility, and smallness that those sights have inspired in me? How can I tell you what it feels like to watch the sun set in Grenada and to drive up to the city, lit like a sea of little candles leading up to the Alhambra? Or what it’s like to see the streets of London or Geneva gleam like a giant Christmas ornament against the night sky? How can I capture the sensation of sprinting up a mountain with old and new friends, heart and adrenaline pounding, then surveying the sprawling city beneath you, with the wind crying in the night, tearing at you face in a violent gale that might knock you clean off the mountain? How can I put on paper what it feels like to wake up seeing the sun rise over Edinburgh Castle, perched on the rocks like an eagle?
It seems almost hopeless to even try to capture on paper the things I’ve done, seen, tasted, smelled, climbed, explored, felt, discovered, or learned in the course of four short months. A list can’t capture the nutty hale taste of Spanish coffee, the deliciously pungent tingle of French wine, the sharp bite of an Irish wind, the gentle kiss of Scottish rain. I can’t do justice to the tastes: the salty, crisp of Irish potatoes, the warm oil and butter of Italian bread, the sweet sharpness of a Spanish pomegranate, the light creamy delight of English scones with clotted cream, or the smokey, sweet burn of Scottish whisky. I can’t explain the simple comfort I get from a cup of tea while listening to a soft Irish rain, or from the dull glowing laugher shared by friends around a bottle of Spanish red wine. I cannot explain the feeling of power, of excitement, of accomplishment I felt sitting at the top of mount Holyhead, the Alps, or Arthur’s seat so high above the world, then running, racing, sliding, tumbling down at breakneck speed. Words on a page cannot convey the myriad of purples, gold, reds, and pinks that the Spanish sunset paints on the clouds, the sparkle of lights that line ripples of the Thames, or the staggering lushness that fills the deep green of the British and Irish countryside.
I’ve tried to express it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. For 2 pages and 3 previous drafts I’ve attempted to put my experience to words, but to no avail. Maybe that’s why I had trouble keeping up with my blogging and writing while I’ve been here. Maybe I knew how short my attempts would fall. But I can tell you one thing that this ordeal has done to me. As much as I’ve seen, tasted, experienced, and done, I know that this was only the briefest of glimpses into the sprawling wonder of the world. As much as I’ve done over these short months, I know there is infinitely more out in the wide world that I haven’t done yet, and even more that I may never do. I want to drink deeply from this cup until I burst, to savor every taste of this wild, precious, and brief life that I can. Brittani told me before we arrived that I would get the travel bug. That’s only half true. I’ve got the life bug. I want to learn, read, write, taste, create, experience, love, laugh, and discover until the day I die, whether it happens in a small town in Georgia or in the streets of Europe. I am a learner, a writer, a reader, a wanderer, and a questioner. To then end of my days I will always be so. Learning that by itself would have been worth the trip.
I cannot begin to convey how all these things have affected me. How can I describe St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the Alhambra? How can I explain the serenity, the peace, or the spiritual weight I felt there? How can I express how learning at the feet of scholars like Francis Warner, Barry Webb, or Julia Cresswell has so fundamentally changed my studies, my reading, my thoughts and my writing? How can I put to words the majesty, the grandeur, the magnificence of the heaven-shaped landscapes that I’ve seen since coming here? I’ve seen the cliffs of Moher’s staggering peaks, the snow-crowned Swiss Alps, the view from Arthur’s Seat, the tranquil depths of Loch Ness, the clear bay of Le Leman lit up with the lights of the city, and countless other wonders that my weak words cannot ever capture. How can I put to words the incredible sense of awe, humility, and smallness that those sights have inspired in me? How can I tell you what it feels like to watch the sun set in Grenada and to drive up to the city, lit like a sea of little candles leading up to the Alhambra? Or what it’s like to see the streets of London or Geneva gleam like a giant Christmas ornament against the night sky? How can I capture the sensation of sprinting up a mountain with old and new friends, heart and adrenaline pounding, then surveying the sprawling city beneath you, with the wind crying in the night, tearing at you face in a violent gale that might knock you clean off the mountain? How can I put on paper what it feels like to wake up seeing the sun rise over Edinburgh Castle, perched on the rocks like an eagle?
It seems almost hopeless to even try to capture on paper the things I’ve done, seen, tasted, smelled, climbed, explored, felt, discovered, or learned in the course of four short months. A list can’t capture the nutty hale taste of Spanish coffee, the deliciously pungent tingle of French wine, the sharp bite of an Irish wind, the gentle kiss of Scottish rain. I can’t do justice to the tastes: the salty, crisp of Irish potatoes, the warm oil and butter of Italian bread, the sweet sharpness of a Spanish pomegranate, the light creamy delight of English scones with clotted cream, or the smokey, sweet burn of Scottish whisky. I can’t explain the simple comfort I get from a cup of tea while listening to a soft Irish rain, or from the dull glowing laugher shared by friends around a bottle of Spanish red wine. I cannot explain the feeling of power, of excitement, of accomplishment I felt sitting at the top of mount Holyhead, the Alps, or Arthur’s seat so high above the world, then running, racing, sliding, tumbling down at breakneck speed. Words on a page cannot convey the myriad of purples, gold, reds, and pinks that the Spanish sunset paints on the clouds, the sparkle of lights that line ripples of the Thames, or the staggering lushness that fills the deep green of the British and Irish countryside.
I’ve tried to express it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. For 2 pages and 3 previous drafts I’ve attempted to put my experience to words, but to no avail. Maybe that’s why I had trouble keeping up with my blogging and writing while I’ve been here. Maybe I knew how short my attempts would fall. But I can tell you one thing that this ordeal has done to me. As much as I’ve seen, tasted, experienced, and done, I know that this was only the briefest of glimpses into the sprawling wonder of the world. As much as I’ve done over these short months, I know there is infinitely more out in the wide world that I haven’t done yet, and even more that I may never do. I want to drink deeply from this cup until I burst, to savor every taste of this wild, precious, and brief life that I can. Brittani told me before we arrived that I would get the travel bug. That’s only half true. I’ve got the life bug. I want to learn, read, write, taste, create, experience, love, laugh, and discover until the day I die, whether it happens in a small town in Georgia or in the streets of Europe. I am a learner, a writer, a reader, a wanderer, and a questioner. To then end of my days I will always be so. Learning that by itself would have been worth the trip.
No comments:
Post a Comment