A Package

I got a package from home today. It contained:

1. One winter coat
2. Two winter scarves
3. Three pairs of mittens (seems excessive, I know, but one pair is really warm (for winter hiking, of course), one pair is nostalgic (my UMM mittens), and one pair is slightly dressy)
4. One pair of Ugg boots (this is where I submit to mockery in order to be warm and cozy)
5. One rain jacket (apparently it rains here even in winter. Something to look forward to)
6. One book (Mockingjay, the final Hunger Games book. At last at last I get to finish the series.)

There's nothing quite so wonderful as getting something from home when you're away. I smelled every single item as I lifted it out of the box, because the last person to touch it was my Mom.

Sentimental? Yes. Uncalled for? No way.

In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand

I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.

They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.

For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.

Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?

Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.

I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.

I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.

Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.

And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.

Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.

Stay gold. I'll be trying.

Salzburged

Some funny things about living in Austria:

1. Every time I have to make an interaction with a native German speaker, whether it be to buy a bus ticket, order lunch, or simply to apologize for a random act of clumsiness, I think of said interaction like a game: let's see how long I can keep them believing that I am also a native speaker. Usually not long. But I'm getting better.

2. I am now utterly and completely unimpressed with the Alps. What? I can see a mountain from my dorm room window? Ho hum.

3. This is not a good place for people with a sweet tooth to live. It's downright dangerous. Must take brisk walks/slow jogs daily in retaliation.

4. Since I'm (sort of) a native now, I'm quickly becoming annoyed by tourists. Dear large group of 60 plus-ers: please take your umpteenth picture of Mozart's birthplace and quit blocking the sidewalk. Danke schön. (Sorry if this sounds mean, but those darn tour groups almost made me late for class this morning; their bulky cameras and fanny packs forced me to practically crawl along the street in order to keep moving.)

5. Almost every single person in my group (that is, other members of my study abroad program) goes out drinking every night. Every single night. Drunk. Stumbling home at 7 a.m. as I'm walking the opposite way, heading to class. Ergo, I have not made many friends as of yet. Because although I'm now legal, and although I'm certainly not opposed to having a drink now and then (not that I really have yet), I also firmly believe that the majority of one's fun, whether alone or with a group, should be had sober. I mean, if you're drunk, you're not really having fun. The chemicals poisoning your liver are. And I don't know if they should be having that much fun, especially when in close proximity to a vital organ.

Come on guys, can't we just play Sardines instead?

I miss Morris.

6. It's so incredibly beautiful here, but I think about home and the people back home ALL THE TIME. I'll be looking at something, and all of the sudden I'll think, "Jeez, my Dad would enjoy this retired WWII tanker. He would probably make me spend hours touring it with him, because he always has to read EVERY SINGLE THING in EVERY SINGLE DISPLAY." And then I'll shake my head and remember that I'm supposed to be independent and grownup and I'm supposed to be making new friends and sharing things with them. And then I'll remember that my dorm room currently smells like a brewery and I'll feel a little bit of despair because I don't know if I want that kind of friend.

And then I'll get really snobby and decide that I already have enough friends back home. Why do I need more?

And then I'll sit in my room by myself, stare at the wall, and think, "Oh. That's why."

Don't get me wrong; I love it in Salzburg. I just wish I had some good people to love it with.

Stay gold, guys. And maybe send some my way. I'm the one reading Northanger Abbey in Room 330.

Bear With Me

Bear with me, because:

1) The secrets of Wordpress still evade me
2) I have a tendency to take crooked pictures
3) I still haven't thought of a decent name for my other blog

http://staygoldponyboy8.wordpress.com

Can I Stay Wit You Please?

Good Lord I hate Wordpress. I don't know if they actually claim to be user friendly over there, but if they do, it's an atrocious lie.

Can I just stay wit youse guys?

Stats:

Current suitcase weight: 55 pounds
Fee charged for an overweight checked bag: $70 American Dollars
Hours until I leave: 6 1/2 hours
Hours I will be in the air today: 9
Books I'm bringing along to pass the time: The Hunger Games, Catching Fire (sequel to Hunger Games), and my crappy paperback version of Gone With the Wind

You Say It's Your Birthday

It's my birthday too. (That's a Beatles song for all of you sad, lonely, McCartneyless folks).

As always, it doesn't feel like my birthday. I'm twenty-one today. Huh. Interesting. Now please excuse me while I go back to alternating between whining in despair and attempting to cram one more item into my already bulging suitcase.

The one thing I will say about being twenty-one is that it's my last big birthday for a long while. At least until thirty, I'd say. And it's certainly the last birthday truly associated with being a teenager/young adult. After this it will just be another year, ho hum. No more big-deal kid birthdays for me. No more exclamations about how old I'm getting (because after a certain point, of course, such exclamations change from being complimentary to being downright insulting). Pretty soon my birthday cake will no longer be decorated with a candle for every year of my life. There'll be a candle for every five years, every decade. Fire safety comes before Grandma's pride, you know.

I'm afraid I can't say a whole lot about Austria right now because (see above) I still have packing to do, and it's late, and I'm exhausted from my last 4 a.m. shift at Target. I will say that I'm currently fairly frightened, and that I feel like a freshman all over again, and that if I didn't know deep down that I'm going to have a wonderful time, I would probably be cowering under my covers right now (although that still might come later on tonight).

The Wordpress blog is still a no-go. I haven't had the time (nor the patience) today to fiddle with it again, so it'll just have to wait until I'm actually sitting on the streets of Salzburg. Maybe it will work then?

Until then, I'll be journaling, I'll be thinking of you guys, and I'll be twenty-one.

Stay gold.

This is What I have to Work With

This is what I have to work with.

And it's not going well, folks. I'm overwhelmed. I have everything (as you can see), but I just have no idea how to go about cramming it all into my suitcase. I don't want to be the girl wearing the same shirt day after day, but I also don't want to be the girl who can't hoist her suitcase off the baggage carousel without the help of four large German men in lederhosen.

Furthermore, I think Wordpress may have some sort of vendetta against me. I think it knows I also have a Blogger, because I strongly suspect that it is purposefully making itself difficult to navigate. It doesn't really matter anyway, though, because I still haven't thought of a name for my travel blog! I want something clever, yet specific to the purpose of that blog (i.e. describing my European adventures). And if you suggest I name it My European Adventures, I may have to make an Oompa Loompa my Person of the Week for the next year just to spite you.

Here are the current options:
Salzburged (too violent sounding? And it makes me think of burgers which is kind of off-topic)
Holly Goes to Europe (too immature sounding? It's not very subtle...)
Rick Steve Ain't Got Nothin On Me, Dog
Holly's Von Trip (I'm officially fooling around now. Sorry.)

Poster Child

I turn twenty-one years old on Thursday*. I leave the country, not to return until December, on Friday. The following Saturday, I will be in London. The following Monday, I will be in Munich, and then in Salzburg approximately two hours later (or so my itinerary says).

Before these days come to pass, I have to do the following:
-Begin one travel blog (and think of a name for said blog. See me with any ideas)
-Shop for various small items, including, of all things, a winter hat (where am I going to find one of those at the beginning of September? Again, see me with ideas)
-Clean the bottomless pit of despair that used to be my bedroom
-Work four more shifts at Target (3 of which begin at 4 a.m.)
-Pack one large suitcase and two small carryons with enough clothes and books and random necessities to keep me happy until December
-Win/Steal/Pawn family jewels to buy a Kindle so I don't have to tote aforementioned books across Europe (ignore this post. Books are heavy.)
-Say goodbye to 2 wonderful parents and 2 gloriously smelly German Shepherd dogs
-Relearn all of the German I've forgotten over the past three months (I know, I know: good luck with that, Holly)

On a happier note, I think I've officially hit all the emotions commonly associated with study abroad preparations. You've seen excited, you've seen scared, you've seen wistful, and now you're seeing stressed.

I feel like one of those posters you see in a guidance counselor's office. You know: the one with the awkward photo of a '90s teenager holding a book and a backpack and somehow managing to look pleasant and disparaging at the same time? That's me.

*Remember when you and your friends Googled the day of your 21st birthdays to see if they fell on weekends (for optimal partying, of course)? Well, I never actually did that, but now that I'm approaching the monumental day, I greatly appreciate that it's a Thursday. You know I love Thursdays. Whenever something exceedingly strange or exceedingly wonderful happens to me, it's always on a Thursday. Here's hoping Thursday won't let me down this week.

The Best Thing I Read This Summer

Was without a doubt The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Ironically, Edgar is also the last book I read this summer. Just finished it last night. I cried at the end, and then I reread a few passages and cried some more. Then I tried (and failed) to go to sleep. It's one of those books you can't sleep on; its magnificence presses on your mind until you find yourself rifling through your bookshelf at midnight, looking for something comparable. You fail, and ultimately have to rely on the Benadryl you're taking for your disgusting case of hives to knock you out.

Edgar Sawtelle is a mute fourteen-year-old boy who's family makes their living breeding dogs in the thick Northwoods of Wisconsin.* But when a Hamlet-esque turn of events results in his father's death, Edgar flees into the wilderness, taking along three dogs for company.

The esteemed authors on the back of my copy call Edgar a Coming Of Age Story, which I suppose is true, although one might argue that every single book ever written is a Coming Of Age of sorts (after all, when do we ever truly grow into ourselves? And what kind of author would depict a character as being entirely static, unless he/she was not aiming for realism?).

What I liked most about the book was the insight about the breeding and training of the Sawtelles' dogs. Also the insight into the minds of the dogs themselves. The dogs are truly characters in this novel, with as much depth and intelligence as anyone you've ever met.

Edgar is a pinnacle of fine storytelling, and as I'm sure you know, there are a lot of books out there that don't read like stories, that don't sweep you along and tangle you up and never really release you, even after you've finished the last page.

Only the very best ones do.



*I should tell you: Another one of the reasons why I loved this book was because I am very familiar with the setting of the book. We drive through the Chequamegon (believe it or not, I spelled that correctly without having to Google first)(also, it's pronounced Sha-Wa-Meg-Gun for you outoftowners) National Forest every time we visit our boat on Lake Superior.