And The Blog Goes On...

Shameless ambassador pose

Dear everyone who loves my blog (i.e., my mom, cousin Heidi, Grandma Jean, and Wes--and you Shawn, I know it's your home page!),

Apologies for the ridiculous hiatus in bloggery. After returning from Germany, I had the most hectic two weeks of schoolwork yet this semester followed by writing a paper/taking a paper seminar, immediately followed by going to Rome.

So here I am with less than two weeks left in grand Europe. Before I talk about Rome in my next blog, I thought it would be a good idea to talk not about my travels, but about the schooling I have received here at Jonkoping University.

Jonkoping, city of lights

Sitting on the shore

Everyday I rise at 6:17 a.m. sharp and eat a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese smeared across it accompanied by a hot Earl Grey tea. I read the New York Times online, do 39 push-ups, shower, put on an oxford and hop on the bus.

OK, I made all of that up. With the exception of showering and getting on the bus. Though I assume that's the routine of most people who blog for a living.

For the first five weeks at Jonkoping U, my classmates and I studied multiculturalism in education. We had class pretty consistently every other day, usually from 9-12 OR 1-4, though oftentimes 9-12 AND 1-4. We did various essays about the subject matter, and a few group projects relating the lectures to our home countries.

This class, the "Multi-Cultural Teacher," has been like nothing I have ever participated in back home. The standard set-up at SDSU is to take 12 to 18 credits each semester. Hypothetically, a student would have three classes each day on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and two on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

In Sweden, one or two classes meet nearly every day for a six-week period. After the six weeks, students take one or two new classes.

Our class, however, is more of a "course," split into four five-week modules. The first, as previously mentioned, dealt with culture. The second five weeks were spent in Swedish schools (elementary or high school, according to the students’ chosen specialties), the third module discussed various forms of power, and the fourth module gives time to write our final 20-page paper using the material from the first three modules.

There are four teachers who "run things" and a number of guest lecturers grace us with their presence, usually for two class periods: a lecture and a follow-up. For instance, the particularly busy two weeks I mentioned earlier contained lectures (all by different professors) on crisis management, the power of the media, the Palestine-Israeli conflict, and the role of gender in education. With varying topics and perspectives, class is usually very interesting, and we students are given ample time to complete the assignments to prevent getting too overwhelmed.

The second module, as I mentioned, consisted of "field studies."

The field studies were arranged by our professors, I was lucky enough to be assigned to Grennaskolan, an international boarding school that accommodates a majority of Swedish students, but also houses students from Russia, Germany, Brazil, and other far reaches of the world.

Almost every day for five weeks, I took the #122 bus on a beautiful 45-minute ride along the lake to Grenna, a quaint town of 600 people most known for their peppermints. My day usually started with a cup of coffee in the teacher's lounge before heading to one of the history or social sciences classes I shadowed for the module. My final, 20ish-page, somewhat time consuming, paper (which I am writing now) focuses on the differences in "citizenship education" between the United States and Europe.

Grennaskolan buildings

View from Grennaskolan

My work in the field was a fantastic experience as I got to witness the teaching of history and civics from a completely opposite perspective from my schooling at Spearfish High. The teachers were incredible, taking me sunder their wings, even allowing me to give two lessons on the American Constitution.

In addition to the academics, the student life at Jonkoping, University is a blast, providing countless opportunities to meet people from basically everywhere. From International Day to Mexico Week to a trip to the Fjords of Norway, the Student House and One World organizations provide a plethora of fun ways to learn about the globe. One night I attended "Tapas Night"
(tapas are essentially "snacks" in Spanish) with a large group of us getting a taste of Spanish food and music. Or the hockey games I attended rooting for the hometown HV71. Another night included a "Queen's Day" party, thrown by a group from the Netherlands in honor of the major Dutch holiday, and International Day was a big hit, with students from over a dozen countries setting up booths displaying the traditions and culture of their homelands.

'80s party

Group trips

The best times I've had in Sweden, though, are the random meetings between friends I made during the last few months. Playing low-stakes poker with guys from Holland, France, Colombia, Turkey, and Missouri; the 80's party we had Monday night; the impromptu dance-off, which I somehow ended up being crowned champion of; sitting on the shore of the lake and just listening to the water. All of these memories probably won't really sink in until some random Thursday while I'm giving a tour of campus and a parent from Kadoka asks me how I liked studying abroad. I'll think of all of these things and more. Maybe I'll be so flooded with memories I'll forget to mention Woodbine cottage, which has housed SDSU's presidents since the early 1900's. Renovated in 2005, the cottage has been declared a state historical landmark, and thus has been painted to fit the time period in which it was first constructed....

Um, sorry about that. Autopilot.

Anyway, I will probably respond with a blanket response of, "It was awesome!" And if that family from Kadoka isn't especially interested in Medary Commons, I may bring up the time I went to Rome....

But that's a story for another day (like next Monday).

Czech It Out

Camera? Check.
Comfortable walking shoes? Check.
Passport? Che..wait, yeah--check.

All right. Let's go to Prague.

Patrick's grandmother came dashing out of the garage, serenading me in her native tongue, apparently instructing me to get something from her car, as all I picked up was "mein auto."

With my jacket in one hand and an apple in the other, I found myself powerless.

"Um, Paaatrick! Your Grandma is yelling at me, and I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN!"

After my translating friend talked it out with his grandmother, we left for the Czech Republic with our cameras, walking shoes, passports, and steering wheel lock. We took off in, naturally, the family Volkswagen.

"By the way," Patrick mentioned, "Ome wasn't yelling at you...that's just her. She wasn't mad."

Good. I feared I had angered the matriarch. “You did tell her I don't speak German, right?”

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure she ignored me."

Touché.

Hour and a half later, a pair of Aussies, a native German, and the American kid reached the border. As we pulled up to the booth, we joked about what the guards were going to think when such a diverse group of youths requested to enter the Czech Republic. Shortly thereafter, we were asked to drive six meters ahead and pull over behind a blue BMW.

After our passports each earned a stamp, we continued on our way. Apparently, a completed highway between Dresden and Prague provided a 2 1/2-hour drive. Unfortunately, completed could not describe the highway, as the Czechs had not yet finished their end. This required Patrick, along with anyone else headed to Prague on Easter Saturday, to detour through a small town along the Elbe River. On the bright side, with traffic at a standstill, Kath and I took some great pictures out the window. On the other side of the coin, our drive took closer to four hours. As we inched through the town we realized the number of cars was not so much the problem as was the men PAINTING A CROSSWALK ON THE STREET AT NOON.

Patrick: "Unbelievable."


Finally, we reached Prague (or in Czech: Praha). I looked around excitedly as my Swedish friend Tuve (who I actually met last semester when she studied at SDSU) had told me Prague is one of the most beautiful cities she had ever seen.

Along the outskirts of town my excitement dwindled and I started to wonder if Tuve had lied to me in some cruel, European joke. With buildings in disrepair and a train station in disarray, Prague first impressed me as less than stellar.

Patrick, with his innate sense of direction, and Zak, with his copy of Shoe String Guide to Europe, navigated us to the visitor information center where we snagged a map of Praha and made our way to the "old town."

"Man, Prague kind of suc..."

We turned a corner and SHAZAAM: PRAHA! We may as well have hopped in a Delorean with Michael J. Fox and gone back in time, as the contrast between the street from whence we had come and the street on which we were standing was worlds apart.

From the posters in the visitor center, we recognized the building in front of us as the Royal Orchestra Building, where composers like Mozart, Beethoven, and, Chopin had graced the stage. Continuing through a large archway, the grandeur of Prague continued to grow.

Royal Orchestra

The old town, dating back to 1231, housed an overflow of Easter tourists. My trio of friends and I made our way to the marketplace complete with cobblestone streets and shops on either side of the narrow streets.

With so many options and so much hunger in my stomach, I finally decided on a bratwurst. As I ate my delicious lunch (made even tastier by the exchange rate: 1 US dollar = 20 Czech Crowns. My bratwurst: 30 Crown), and the rest feasted on something called "Grandma's recipe.” We soaked in the Prahaian (I just made that up) atmosphere and listened to a group of street musicians sing "It's a Long Road to Tiporary."


After checking out the arts and crafts available from the market vendors, we wound our way through another narrow street surrounded by brightly colored, centuries-old buildings, until we came to the Vlatava River. Working our way through the masses (Praha claims a population of over 1 million, in addition to the thousands of tourists meandering the streets this day), we began crossing the famous Charles Bridge, which connects the Old Town with the "lesser town" (or, as I later looked up, the "Mala Strana"). On either side of this lengthy bridge we discovered musicians, artists, and statues depicting various religious events, erected by the Catholics between 1600 and 1800.

Charles Bridge

One specific statue is said to bring good luck to whoever touches the base. As we lined up for our chance at good luck, Patrick had to bring up how many people probably touch this statue everyday. Way to kill the mood, German.

Charles Bridge statue

After walking about Mala Strana for some time, we decided to take a rest and grab a pint for 22 Crown (remember 20 Crown = $1 USD).

Rejuvenated, our intercontinental sightseeing group headed toward the monastery. From the top of the hill, we fell in love with a beautiful view of the entire city, with Prague Castle to our left, the whole of the town in the distance, and the green, sloping grounds of the monastery right in front of us. After walking through the greenery and soaking in the sun, we decided it was time to check out the Prague Castle, via the 9th century.

Prague Castle

Monastery

The entire complex (the largest in Europe) is made up of a series of majestic structures. After making fun of a middle-aged American guy in awkwardly short shorts (sadly Patrick is right; you really can pick the Americans out of a crowd), as well as the guards who can't move or speak who are "guarding" the castle grounds, we decided to hop in line to enter the St. Vitus Cathedral. My watch read nearly half past five, and a security-looking man came to us hopeful tourists at the end of the line and said in a handful of languages, "Closed, come back tomorrow." So, being the considerate youth we are (wait, we just got done making fun of complete strangers...) we started to look for something else to do. Just as we looked over our shoulders, the entire line surged forward and a heap of people made it into the Cathedral at the last minute. Apparently the lesson here is ignore authority. Whatever.

St. Vitus Cathedral

Sauntering towards St. George's Basilica, I noticed a poster displaying flags from all over the world. A closer look revealed that one flag, the American flag, had been decorated with a huge X over the top. Patrick offered his condolences, and the Aussies just laughed. What could cause such a scandalous act against Old Glory? I can think of about a thousand motives for the unknown hooligan, but I get the most satisfaction out of blaming Toby Keith. And Bill O'Reilly.

Moving on.

We made our way back across another bridge toward our car but not before stopping at a pleasant outdoor restaurant. Wishing to take advantage one last time of the ridiculous exchange rate, we sat down and ordered up. Our laughing, merrymaking, and general tomfoolery were cut to a halt when we asked for the check and our waiter threw down the bill.

"1,137 Crown."

“Sir, can we split this four ways?”

"No. One table, one check. We have 200 guest here. One table. One check."

Right, first of all, I could see pretty clearly there were not 200 other people eating. Secondly, it took us longer to come up with 1137 Crown between the four of us, making change back and forth, than it would have just to pay for our own meals. What I'm getting at here, young people, for those of you going into hotel and restaurant management, is this: the customer is always right. Except in Prague. There the waiter stands awkwardly until you come up with the money. I mention this because it almost ended our day on a sour note, until we realized the entire exchange was hilarious, and it became a running joke for the rest of the trip.

Walking back to the ghetto to get our car, our feet worn and stomachs full, we were glad to see the Volkswagen all in one piece. Looking at the pictures, I still can't believe I traveled someplace so random as Praha, Czech Republic. Hopefully, one day, one of my students will wonder aloud what it's like in the Czech Republic, and I will be able to tell him or her. In all reality, though, I'll probably tell them whether they ask or not.

Up next...Storming the Castles!

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Note: The experiences are mine; however, I looked up some of the historical information (e.g., names and dates) at Prague Experience.

Germany: The City Dresden & the Village Böla

For those of you planning on travelling to Europe with ambitions of having a "real" experience with "the people of the country" and "getting in touch" with another culture, my best advice is to do what I did. Befriend a man who grew up in a 330-person village, and if he happens to be kind enough to invite you to his house for Easter, you should promptly accept. Without Patrick's hospitality and generosity, my German experience more than likely would have consisted of a hostel in Munich and a city map with me wondering if that hill over there was the Alps or not.

However, with my fun and knowledgeable friend as not only a world class host, but also a stand up tour guide, I feel that I “carpe diemed” Deutschland like it was going out of style.

After 16 hours on the bus, Patrick and I wound through the roads of East Germany skipping from village to village, sunshine and countryside abounding, until we reached my home away from home away from home, Böla. With 330 (332 with Patrick and me) people populating this village, word had apparently spread that the Schobers would be housing an American and a pair of Australians (who arrived a day later than I). Near as I could tell, if the 4th of July is the best time to shoot off fireworks, then early April is the best time to renovate a roof, as Patrick's dad climbed down a ladder to greet me.

Patrick's house

The house where Patrick grew up turned out to be the house his father grew up in, and his father, and his father, and his father. Patrick's brother lives across the street, and his uncle down the road. As I said, the Aussies stayed a day in Copenhagen, so I found myself the lone foreigner on this particular afternoon. After meeting the gang (Patrick's dad, Andreas, and mother, Martina) we went upstairs and had some delicious German meatballs. Patrick's father spoke pretty decent English, and his mother spoke next to none. I actually picked up a fair amount of German, mostly credited to Patrick's 18-month-old niece, Lilly, a.k.a. “the cutest kid in the world”. As her parents (Patrick's brother and girlfriend) did their best to teach Lilly basic German, I did my best to listen in and am proud to say I now have the German linguistic skills of a two-year-old.

Looking out the window in the kitchen, we were able to see the goings-on of the whole village. Whether someone drove out or rode their bike down to the bakery next to the pond, any type of activity could be noted. This proved a comfortable out in the event Patrick's family ran out of English or the Aussies and I ran out of German at the breakfast table.


The best part of staying at Patrick's house in the village had to be the stories his parents told. Growing up in the Russian-controlled federation, Andreas and Martina were not allowed to leave East Germany. They told us that when the announcement came over the radio that the wall had fallen, people all over Berlin got in their cars and headed west...just because they could.

When Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, they had to watch it on pirated West German TV, because the Communists controlled the airwaves. We looked at a world map, and Andreas told us he was just happy to have people from all over the world in his house, because when he was our age, a line was drawn, dividing the world, and people either stood on the American or the Russian side.

Another favorite part of life in the village for me was the Easter Walk. After all 16 of us had finished our Easter dinner, we headed outside. Andreas, Martina, Grandma Schober, Patrick, his brother, his brother's girlfriend, his aunt, uncle, cousin, his grandparents on Martina's side, Zak, Kath and of course, Lilly, all put on our shoes and hiked through the village. On the walk Patrick pointed out places where memories had taken place, as well as different plants and sceneries native to Germany. Back at the house, we all had cake and coffee, which were followed by a tradition I'll bring back to America: the Easter nap.

Dresden is a city known not only for being the capital of Saxony (a federal German state) but also for the tragedy it endured in 1945. As WWII raged on, the Anglo-American powers wanted to show the Russians they were still a major player in the war. It was decided to bomb Dresden, a town with no strategic value to the war. Upward of 30,000 people died, and the town was reduced to rubble. Only recently did the people of Dresden restore the city cathedral, funded by worldwide donations, using some of the church's original bricks.

Dresden Chapel

There was even a made-for-TV movie about it, half of which Patrick and I watched with his listening intently and then translating for me. As one can imagine, this became tiresome for both of us. That's a whole different story. I really need to learn a second language. Moving on.

River Elbe

Next to the River Elbe lies Zwinger Palace built by August the Strong, beloved king of Saxony. The palace abounds with towers, fountains and gardens. Patrick explained that a rivalry had built between Dresden and Munich to claim the most beautiful and historic city in Germany. Standing outside the opera house, actors dressed as royalty from the time of King August roamed the streets. It reminded me of Disneyland.

Zwinger Palace

Opera House

In addition to the rebuilt "old town," the "new district" of Dresden displayed a different era of beautiful buildings with a number of award-winning architectural masterpieces in the center of the city.

UFA Cinema Center

Next time...Prague!

International Jackrabbits

I arrived back in Jonkoping yesterday (departure from Dresden, Germany: 6 p.m. on Wednesday. We got to Jonkoping at 11 a.m., goooood times on the bus.) after a week in Germany. While I organize all that happened in Deutschland, I thought I would replay a night spent in Sweden and Wyoming—at the same time.

A little background.

Of all the things I miss about home, I found myself pleasantly surprised that I genuinely missed going to the girls basketball games. I'm sure the fact that they systematically dominated almost every team that came to Frost Arena had something to do with it; nonetheless, part of me wished I could have been in Brookings for the WNIT extravaganza.

After getting up at 2 a.m. Sweden time to see the Jacks make waste of the Hoosiers, I was happy to see the next game against Wyoming fell earlier in the day—10 p.m. here in Sweden.

I also realized I needed to recruit some fans to watch the game with me—enter Patrick from Germany and Zak from Australia.


The night starts off with a band as I realize I need to PAY WYOMING TO WATCH THE GAME. Classy Cowboys, classy.

$8 later, we three intercontinental fans crowd around a feed not worth $8, but still better than the radio. This, however, was before the commentators began calling the game.

Watching the game with two people that don't go to SDSU presents a few challenges, like getting two guys fired up about a place that they didn't know existed a few months ago. Luckily, these guys were great sports.

Patrick: Why does your shirt say, “Give me more cowbell baby?”


Me: Oh, they used to call us “Moo U” and would ring cowbells at us, so we took the negative and turned it into a trademark positive.
.
Patrick: Moo U? Hahahahaha

Me: Easy, Patrick.

Patrick: I'm sorry, but that's funny. (Throughout the night a few sporadic “moo u, haha” comments from a wildly amused Patrick.)

An added curveball though, was that Patrick had never actually seen a basketball game before this.

Patrick: What are they wearing?
Me: Those are basketball uniforms, pretty standard.

Patrick: Really? I've seen beach volleyball. They should wear something more like that.

Me: Hahahaha

The Wyoming "Cowgirls" are introduced and each throw a T-shirt into the stands. Um, cute?

The game progresses, a low scoring, defensive battle with the Jackrabbits looking sharp. After a few buckets are exchanged Zak notices the scoreboard ISN'T ON THE SCREEN. What exactly did my $8 go to? The T-shirts thrown in the stands?

Not to harp on the Wyoming commentators (OK, that's exactly what I'm about to do) but seriously, did two parents win the "announce a game" sweepstakes? First of all, I could have sworn they sat there with a book of sports clichés: "She was not to be denied," "She's the real deal."

I could have handled this if the announcers hadn't referred to the Wyoming girls by their first names. Nothing takes the edge off of a basketball game like hearing, "I thought a foul should have been called on Vogel after she stole the ball from Stacy, but luckily Tiffany was there to get the rebound." And: "After a miss by Amber, Courtney really hustled to keep it in bounds." Zak asked me in all seriousness if #12 was the daughter of the announcers. I couldn't give him a straight answer.

ANYWAY, the game continues and Patrick's comments from a first timer, especially in his German accent, provides an overflow of entertainment.

"Oh no! We're wearing SDSU t-shirts and SDSU is losing!"

So Patrick stands up and starts clapping. Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap “DEUTSCHLAND!”
Hey, it's the thought that counts.

We stand with him, as the game is getting tighter (as we see in a separate window, since the scoreboard is still not on the screen)

During a time-out Patrick asks, "Who is this guy? Is he with your university? I hope not." That would be the Wyoming mascot, a guy dressed up like a cowboy.

Patrick: Oh, right.

Something else from a completely biased opinion: how about the officiating in the first half? Apparently when someone from South Dakota sneezes on a Cowgirl, it's a foul . . . . . Moving on.

Patrick: Who are those guys? The coolest kids in America?
Me: That's the pep band.

Zak: Weren't you in the pep band in high school?

Patrick: Hahahah

Patrick: By the way, Germany beat Czech Republic today in the European cup qualifying round!

Way to one-up the SDSU-Wyoming game. Come on now.

The game reaches half time with SDSU down by a few shots. We eat some chips and I do my best to explain a little SDSU tradition.

The second half begins with Zak making the excellent point that I had to pay $8 for the game, yet there are ads every few seconds. Hmmm, I think it's time to start the Dir-ty Pro-gram chant.

Patrick: Wait, who are those guys?

Me: Male cheerleaders.

Patrick: Seriously? (followed by a look questioning everything he ever learned about America)

The game continues with the Cowgirls pulling away a little bit. I'm trying to hide my obvious frustration when Zak cracks, “Is there anyone from Wyoming in Sweden we could hang out with?”
Me: NOW IS NOT THE TIME!

Zak's a good friend though, and gets right back on the SDSU side and gets legitimately excited when they start to rally.

We begin to bust out the Spirit Fingers, which my worldwide friends find ridiculous, but partake in anyway. Zak decides to do the "Anti-Spirit Fingers" and puts his feet in the air, rubbing them together while Wyoming is shooting free throws. AND IT WORKS.

Patrick: Aaron, you need more cowbell.

Me: I don't have on one me.

Patrick: They have cowbells in Bavaria.

State hits a 3 and high fives fill the room. Zak is referring to Megan Vogel in casual conversation as if he's known her for years. "Man, if the refs would quit calling random fouls on Vogel she could really take over."

Camera pans over crowd.

Patrick: So this is America?

Zak: Um...are they lassoing?

Patrick: Wow.

Zak's suggestion: If they keep calling fouls on Vogel she should earn one and just punch someone in the face.

Haha, fair enough.

Muckenhurst hits a 3.

Zak: Her name alone deserves three points. Veridgan does a good job of running the point.

Patrick: The what?

The game ultimately ends in the favor of the opponent, though the Jackrabbits held their own against 11,000 rabid fans.

Patrick: You'll get them next time.

Though it was a few weeks ago, I just thought I'd say nice job, Jackrabbits. The whole world is proud.

The Ireland Trilogy: Final Episode

Sunday, March 4th, the alarm went off at 7:45 a.m. as the rain beat against the window. Patrick and I grabbed our cameras, donned some sweaters, ate a couple chocolate muffins, and tip-toed around rain drops until we reached the steps of the hotel down the street.


A red 14-passenger van parks alongside the street and a diminutive, mustachioed man walks up to me and asks if I'm going on a tour of Glendalough. After confirming that “Merchen” was indeed on his list, Patrick and I find dry solitude from the rain in the oversized minivan. Joining Patrick and me are a couple from Italy, a pair of girls from France, three people I never got a chance to speak with, and four other Americans. As we pulled onto O’Connell Street, our tour guide gave us a brief history of downtown Dublin, teaching us about the 1916 Easter Rebellion and sharing with us a brief history of the Catholic-Protestant conflict.

The four Americans joining us turn out to be quite the cast. The two seated next to me are Jim from Seattle and Deb from New York City. They are “exhibit artists” for zoos and are currently recreating an elephant habitat in the Dublin Zoo for an incoming herd of African Elephants. Very nice people. To the left of Patrick sat Ray, Deb's father, and his best friend Sam, both from New York. Retired utility men from NYC, sporting FDNY caps, they cracked me up the entire trip. I was just waiting for Ray to bust out a “fuggedahboutit” at any moment.

“Hey, this is nice, I mean, uh, it’s rainin’, you know, and uh, I can’t see out the window, but hey, no, very nice, let’s go on a tour.”

"I'm sorry Dad, my fault."

"No, no don't worry about it, I'm having a lovely time, only thing I would change is maybe, you know, everything."

So our first stop along the countryside is a graveyard. Creepy. The rain is still falling and there's an “Irish Mist” or more appropriately, “An Irish Wall of Solid Fog”. The tour guide tells us that from where we are standing, there's a lovely view of the Irish Sea and Dublin Bay...on a clear day.

Back in the red wagon, we continue driving up a muddy road.

“Where yous guys from?” asks Ray the New Yorker (OK, he didn't really say "yous guys" but he still could have been a Soprano).

Patrick told them he is German and I said I was also from the States. South Dakota, actually.

"Well, I know where Germany is, but I've never heard of South Dakota, ha ha."

You got me, Ray.

After driving up a winding, muddy road, being able to see about four feet in front of us, we're told we're just downhill from a beautiful lake with waterfalls. Refusing not to see all of the available Irish Landscape, Patrick and I, along with two girls from France, make up a crew and hike up the hill to see this lake. The rest of our group opt to stay in the bus. The rain is absolutely hammering Patrick and me. Patrick has an umbrella that gets blown inside out every now and then, and I can't really see anything because the rain is hitting me in the face! Honestly, I loved it. I thought, I AM IN IRELAND! After getting a few shots of the lake in a rainstorm, Patrick and I head back, soaked, and get our complimentary cup of coffee (two sugars).

This entire day is hard to put on paper. I talked with these interesting strangers from the United States and looked out a rain-soaked window at a beautiful country with a scarred history.

We stop again at another lake. "Just a few meters away is a large body of water referred to as Guinness Lake, as a number of Arthur Guinness' family members have lived on property near here. It's a majestic view...on a clear day."


With that, we continued.

Something I found honestly hilarious, highlighting what a diverse country the United States is: As we drove, Deb gazed out her window and said, "Dad! Look-sheep! I know you wanted to see some sheep on this trip!"

"Oh really?" said Ray "Where's the sheep?"

I tried so hard not to laugh.

"Those dumb sheep, just standing out there in the rain, why don't they take cover?"

Seriously, I love New Yorkers. It's official.

A few minutes down the road a whole herd of sheep stood outside my window (on the opposite side of the road). "Hey!" exclaimed Ray. "This guy's got sheep galore and ain't sayin' anything!"

"Sorry," I said, "Umm, there are a lot of sheep in South Dakota. I'll be sure to let you know next time I see some."

So for the next 10 minutes every time I saw such "wildlife" I would dutifully announce "SHEEP!"


The experienced New Yorkers posed to me a question: "How often do sheep get sheared?"

"I believe once a year. There is a shearing 'season' and the sheep spend the rest of the year growing their 'wool' back."

"Ah, thanks kid."

"But then again, that's South Dakota sheep. I don't know about Ireland sheep." (my attempt at a joke)

"Kid, sheep are sheep."

OK then, fair enough. (For the record I looked it up. Most sheep are shorn once a year, though some are sheared twice a year and some every two years. Not that I'm bitter; the point is I'm always right.)

As the drive continued with nice Irish music being played over the speakers, the spry New Yorker and I come to a conclusion: if we can only see four feet out of our windows...then wouldn't the driver also have the same amount of visibility? We decide not to think about it as we hang a right on what looks like a river but is apparently the dirt road leading us to the great waterfall.


This waterfall is massive. I'm expecting a herd of sheep to come flying over the mountain at any minute. The rain is still coming down like a kid that just dropped an open bag of marbles out the window. "Word is, it's going to clear up" the tour guide tells us. Even I am skeptical, BUT still loving Ireland. It can't be the Emerald Isle without a little rain! (Or so I tell myself...constantly.)

We pull into the town of Glendalough to eat some lunch, and all of us are grateful for some legroom and the prospect of putting some food in our stomachs.

After ordering the Guinness Stew, Patrick and I sit down next to our tour guide, along with another man who was running a tour from a different bus. We chat about politics, about Ireland, and about the guy on the other side of the room, who, as it turns out, is brother to Grammy Award-winning singer Enya. Neat.

Probably the funniest exchange of the afternoon:

Tour Guide: What are ye names, lads? Where ye from?

Me: Aaron. The U.S.

Patrick: I am Patrick, from Germany.

Tour Guide (both): Aye, Patrick! And yer from Germany?

Patrick: Yes, I guess it was popular to give your child an English name in the '80s.

Tour Guides: AN ENGLISH NAME!? Why that's as Irish as it comes! Why we're almost to St. Kevin's Church--aye Kevin, that's a good Irish name.

Patrick: Ah yes, I have a friend from Germany named Kevin. His parents also gave him an Eng...IRISH name.

Patrick later whispers to me, "I meant the English language, not the country."

"HAHAHAHAHA, I mean, I understand, Patrick."

After our stop, we head to the back country of Glendalough county. After a short tour of an eroding monastery that was founded in the 1400s, we were let loose to explore the countryside and the two lakes. The weather did clear up. This experience is basically too beautiful and awe inspiring to describe. The pictures may help. As Patrick said, "It's just too much..."

The mist hung over the mountains as the hills rolled and the waterfalls flowed. This was the Ireland I dreamed about while looking at a world map.

On the way home we drove along Europe's largest man-made lake. Turns out they flooded a town and it took them seven years to finally drag out this one old man who refused to leave. Tenacity. We drive awhile more and the driver tells us that 80 percent of Braveheart was filmed in Ireland, with many of the battle scenes using members of the Irish Army Reserve.


At this point, I'm still loving Ireland, but I'm so car-sick I'm just praying to St. Patrick I don't throw up on the guys from New York. We arrive back in Dublin to blue skies and a shining sun.

The next morning, Monday the 5th, Patrick knocks on the bathroom door as I'm brushing my teeth.

"Aaron, you know how we thought our plane took off at 2 p.m.?"

"What do you mean, ‘how we thought’?”

"Well it turns out that's when we land in Sweden...our plane leaves at
11:00."

"What time is it now?"

"9 a.m."

"And we're supposed to be there right now?"

"Technically."

So Patrick and I throw everything in our bags and jump, grab a chocolate muffin, and hop on the next bus to the airport. We get there 10 minutes before they stop taking passengers. We made it. All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. I daresay we conquered Ireland. Flying back, I found myself slightly sad to go back to Sweden, not because I didn't miss it, but because it meant being covered in a canvas of clouds again. But the next week the weather gave us nothing but sunshine.

Ireland Part Deux: Dublin City

At the St. James Gate Brewery, home of Guiness

Saturday, March 3. 8:00 AM

“Hey Patrick. Hey—Patrick.....PATRICK!”
“What?”
“You awake?”
“Sure.”
“Alright! Let’s go!”

Sharing a room with eight other people requires patience and time management, so while some people from France readied themselves for the day using the facilities, Patrick and I made the jaunt down a flight of stairs for our continental breakfast.

A chocolate muffin and a banana. Being a student traveler: love it.

Back upstairs Patrick slyly dove into the bathroom while I guarded the door. After the both of us were ready, Patrick struck up a conversation with a hostel mate of ours. She was, of course, from Germany, and while I looked at the map, Patrick and this German girl chatted away in their native tongue. Jokingly, I told Patrick I was going to find someone who speaks Spanish so he would be out of the loop for once (as Patrick speaks English/German/French). Mind you, my Spanish isn't great by any means, and after telling Patrick this, the German girl informs me she lived in Chile a year and starts peppering me with questions in Spanish.

“I...um..como...me gusta...yeah, you totally caught me off guard.”

Picking up pieces of my ego as we walked out the door, the sights and sounds of Dublin washed over us.

First of all, Sweden is a lovely country. A lovely country where you don't see the sun for WEEKS AT A TIME. Ireland is a town where it rains. A lot. Not this day. This day gave us an umbrella of blue sky and sunshine. We were set, and with Patrick's killer orientation skills, we walked along the River Liffey, occasionally snapping a picture of the great stone parliamentary structures until we found ourselves at the doorstep of Trinity College.

Trinity College

Trinity College, or TC as Oscar Wilde and I used to call it, has a suffocating air of history, with the walls and cobblestone shouting the thoughts and wisdom shared at this institution of higher education. In addition to Oscar Wilde, such minds as Frank McCourt (Angela's Ashes) and Bram Stoker (Dracula) attended TC, which, until the mid 1960s, was an exclusively Protestant college.

After debating whether we could see ourselves as students at Trinity College, Patrick navigated us across the street to St. Stephen's Green. Stepping through the giant stone arch seemed to transport us to a land of tranquility. The park, green in all directions, is bespeckled with fountains and ponds. Stone walls and trees gives off an air of mystery. Old men with canes and laughing children alike enjoy the solitude of “Arch Park,” as I constantly referred to it, much to Patrick's chagrin.

St. Stephen's Green

St. Stephen's Green

Patrick and I then took out the map in an effort to figure out which direction we were facing and to decide if that was indeed the direction we needed to travel to successfully reach St. Patrick's Cathedral. At this time a kind random Irishman inquired, “Where ya lads be lookin' far? Ah St. Patty's. Yes, ye go tru de farst two stoplights and hang a right ye do, can't miss 'er.”

Thank you, kind random Irishman.

From about a block away we spotted the St. Patrick's bell tower. Construction of aforementioned cathedral began in 1190 and though St. Patrick's fell into disarray between the 17th and 18th centuries, Sir Benjamin Guinness, of the famous Arthur Guinness family, put a sizeable amount of charity into the structure, refurbishing the cathedral and laying ground for St. Patrick’s Park.

St. Patrick's

Inside the cathedral, the arched ceilings and history artwork was nothing short of overwhelming. Neither the pictures nor my words can really describe the feeling of being in such a massive, holy place.


After I felt my personal pilgrimage was complete, my travel partner via Deutschland and I decided it was time to eat something. The fortifying nutrients of a chocolate muffin and a banana seemed to be wearing off.

While searching for an eatery and walking in the general direction of the Guinness Storehouse, we stumbled upon The Brazen Head. As it turns out, the Brazen Head is the oldest pub in all of Ireland, founded in 1198. Unable to pass up this bit of history (and a chance to sit down) Patrick and I wandered into this ancient structure and ordered a beverage and the soup de jour (potato soup, naturally).


Feeling reinvigorated, to the storehouse we went.

Turns out, hundreds of other people also thought it would be a good idea to check out the Guinness Brewery on a sunny Saturday afternoon. While waiting in line we met an array of characters from around the world. After listening to some kid from New York rant about the poor exchange rate between the dollar and the euro, I started a conversation with a kindly Scotsman who was in Dublin with his wife on vacation. I understood probably half of what he said, but he’s probably one of the three coolest people I’ve ever met.

Once inside, Patrick and I paid the admission fee and were given something of a paper weight for a souvenir and a ticket for a “free” pint of Guinness at the Sky Lounge on the seventh floor.

The Storehouse/Museum turned out to be pretty fascinating, as we traveled the self-led tour, which chronicled the actual process of making the beer (ingredients, machinery, etc) and then gave a history of the Guinness family and their impact on Ireland. Continuing the journey, the fifth floor is a room dedicated to “drinking trivia,” which highlights the origins of many drinking myths and describes in details the effects and perils of alcohol abuse.

After the sixth floor, which gave a history of Guinness advertising, Patrick and I took the elevator to floor #7: The Sky Lounge. Comparable to the Space Needle in Seattle, the Sky Lounge walls are entirely made of glass, giving a panoramic bird’s-eye view of the city of Dublin. There was, of course, a rainbow to the west. What a great day.

“A rainbow! You know what that means, Aaron. An elf and a pot of gold!”
“A leprechaun, Patrick.”
“Whatever.”

After the tour, we simply wandered around Dublin for awhile, chatting about random things. Patrick plans on working for a major corporation with his business degree, which should probably happen considering he’s in the top 5% of his class at his home university in Germany. We talked about the differences between Germany, South Dakota, and Ireland, and after learning the unemployment rate in Ireland is 3% and minimum wage is eight euros ($10 USD), we again contemplate going to Trinity College.

The night ended with Patrick, Jeremy (from New Zealand) and I sitting at O’Shea’s while a man and a woman with a guitar and a violin played some classic Irish tunes, and old men got up and danced a jig when the spirit moved them.

Ah, Dublin.

Not Your Land, Not My Land, It's Ireland (Part 1)

So it's been a while since the last blog. Inexcusable. BUT I have for you now a three-part trip to Ireland.

It started a few weeks ago, when my friend Patrick, from Germany gave me a call.

Patrick: My mom gave me 100 euros for my birthday.
Me: That was nice of her.
Patrick: Yes. We should go on a trip or something.
Me: Where?

Fast-forward to Friday, March 2, when Patrick and I are standing in an airport about the size of the SDSU Student Union. I'm taking random pictures (for this blog) when a security guard comes up to me and requests that I delete the pictures of the airport that are aimed towards the security doors.

Umm, OK.

I thought he was going to take away my entire camera, in which case I would have had to do something drastic to throw him off guard. Like crying, for instance.

But, with Sven the security guard at ease, Patrick and I boarded the plane and were off to Dublin.

Upon arrival, we were so excited that we were actually in Ireland, it took a minute for us to realize we had absolutely no idea where to go from the airport. We looked into renting a car for Sunday, but as it turns out, one needs to be 25 years old to do that. I've been 21 for a month, and now I'm being told I'm not old enough. Just when I thought I had put in my time....

Anyway.

We two intrepid globetrotters jump on a bus for six euros, which Patrick informed me is ridiculously cheap. When I later learned one euro is equal to 1.20 US$, I agreed.

The bus took us past the city center on O’Connell Street (named in honor of Daniel O’Connell, a legendary parliamentary man) and on to the bus stop, which, conveniently, was two blocks from our hostel.

Now, the day I booked the hostel, there was a bit of...confusion. Hostelbookers.com said the Jacobs Inn was the only hostel in all of Dublin that had a room for us March 2-5. I didn't feel like paying the online extra booking fee, so I called the hostel myself. They said there were no rooms available until Sunday the 4th.

So, I booked the rooms online anyway, after Patrick, business major, convinced me that Hostelbookers had a contingency with the Jacobs Inn and that there were no rooms available when we called, because Hostelbookers had already reserved them, and we then reserved them from said website.

“I hope you're right, my German friend.”

So we pull up to the front counter being only half-sure we actually have a place to stay. Turns out, Patrick was right.


We unload our belongings into our room (111) and meet a few of the people we're staying with (as it was a 10-bed room). We met Jeremy, from New Zealand, who was in Dublin looking for work for a few months so he could continue traveling. Hey, best of luck.

With the sun setting over the Liffey River, Patrick and I hit the town. After going in the completely wrong direction for about half a mile and finding ourselves in a part of town reminiscent of Angela's Ashes, we turn around and find ourselves engulfed in the Temple Bar, which is actually an entire section of town. There are pubs and eateries left and right with live music flowing from the windows of almost every one. Patrick and I sample the nightlife in The Vat House, O'Shea's, Maddigan’s, Robert Reagan’s, and the streets in general before calling it a night. After looking at the city map, we plan out a course for Saturday morning.

Ah, Dublin.

Fat Tuesday

On February 20th, while there were beads, booze, and ballyhoo in the bayou, Sweden celebrated “semlas”. That's right, Fat Tuesday (or Fettisdagen). While the French Quarter found itself full of shenanigans and tomfoolery, Jonkoping, Sweden took a day to recognize a vintage pastry: the semla, which is made from a spiced wheat bun and whipped cream. Lisa from Sweden explained to me that the week before Semla Day, Swedes used to fast for a week, eating very little, to prepare themselves for Lent. This was back in the day with the intense religious Swedes. The practice of fasting before Fat Tuesday is all but gone now, so I'm told. Then, on Fat Tuesday—Semla Day—a great feast is prepared and indulgences are made one last time before the 40 days preceding Easter begin.


I explained to my Swedish friend, Gustav, what goes on in New Orleans during Marti Gras, and I think he may be looking into exchange programs in Louisiana. Difference in culture I guess. For Semla Day, two of the professors who teach our course decided to show some Swedish hospitality. On Tuesday night Professor Ulla invited all of us to her house for soup. Ulla lives in a classic red house with wooden floors and a winding staircase. She said she thought it was important for us international students to get a taste of home every now and then. We
love Ulla.

To top it all off, another professor, Christina, actually brought the whole class homemade semlas. While discussing the history of this fine day, a conversation of differences in religious traditions came up. It was very interesting to hear about Ramadan (where Muslims fast during the hours of sunlight) from my classmate Andeleeb from Pakistan, and Passover and the similarities and differences between Swedish Lutheran Lent and Catholic Lent. At the end of the day, with our stomachs full and our spirits high, everyone left with a greater understanding of Swedish culture and each other.

Road Rules

Things have slowed down a little bit. No major trips in the last few weeks. Not a lot of trips, but a lot of classwork. There are times I will go out on an afternoon just to soak in my surroundings. Even without leaving the town I am able to go someplace new every day.

Being raised in Spearfish, or even going to school in Brookings, I have had the comfort of living in tight-knit communities. It doesn't take more than 15 minutes to get anywhere, especially if you hit the green lights. I have, on occasion (though I don’t recommend this) left my apartment in Brookings at 10 till the top of the hour, parked, ran, and made it to class at maybe two minutes past.

Such is not a scenario here.

Mind you, I'm not saying this is a negative or a downside to living in Jonkoping (pop: 100,000ish). I just mean that it is different from home.

This also is not the case for everyone. Quite the contrary. Of my three roommates, I come from the least populated area. James, from Tanzania, hails from a city of 4 million, the name of which I cannot spell. My other two roomies come from Istanbul, Turkey and Mexico City, Mexico, the seventh and eighth largest cities in the world, respectively, at around 8.2 million citizens.

To this man, the Lanstrafiken Buse is a new challenge all its own.

In order to successfully arrive to class at 9 a.m., a number of wheels must be set in motion. First off, I need to get up around 7:30 a.m., which is easier said than done, as it's still dark out.

After showering, blindly eating some cereal, putting in my contacts and frantically looking for my scarf, I need to be out the door at 8:21 at the latest to catch the 8:29 bus.

Thus was the case on Wednesday morning. After waking up a little late and skipping my bowl of Choko Flakes, I raced against the clock to grab my essentials and run to the bus.

Running to the bus, however, is not a simple task. I'm not sure if you've heard, but it snows a lot in Sweden, and at 8:24 in the morning, there are some pretty wicked patches of ice on the sidewalks.

I see the bus pulling away from the stop just before mine. I lower my head, dig deep, and make it to the bus stop just as the bus driver opens the doors. The snarling beast of a bus, spitting out fumes and eating up pavement, pauses for a moment.

A little background about riding the bus.

Living here just over a month, I have come to learn some of the social norms that go along with public transportation. The Swedes, though very polite and kind, helpful people, keep very much to themselves. There is not a lot of small talk on the bus. Except for the occasional abrasive teenager with his or her iPod and cell phone, I often ride the bus in silence. As I don't speak Swedish save for "Thak" (thank you) and "Hey do" (good bye) I am completely fine with this lack of verbal exchange. Also, when looking for a spot on the bus, if there is an open seat next to a stranger, it is nothing short of customary to remain standing the entire length of a given journey, rather than take a seat next to someone you've never met before. Not that this always happens, but I've seen it. I've also stood the whole way before. I don't make the rules.

Also, after riding the bus everywhere, every day, I've come to notice the differences in bus drivers. The good bus drivers can stop on a dime, placing the first door directly in front of you. The rookies fly past the bus stop and hit the breaks. Drivers, no doubt bitter and tired of their jobs, take the corners way too fast, probably just to see the looks on people’s faces. Kindly old bus drivers wave at people, and wait for the poor person running towards the bus, hands waving, whereas the stricter chauffeurs will leave you hanging, penalizing us young tempters of fate for being but 15 seconds tardy.

Anyway, I luckily reach the bus in the nick of time, only to realize I've forgotten my bus card in the pants pocket of jeans worn the night before.

I'm doomed.

I stealthily have a seat, hoping the bus driver opts not to give me the death stare, refusing to start the bus until he hears the "beep" of my bus card, or until I walk up to the front and pay him.

Today though, I am a champion. This bus driver is concerned much more with being on time than with collecting dues.

On my way home at 4:30, I still have no bus card in my pocket. The red line to Roslatt is packed with people, and this time I could easily slip in without payment. My fear of Karma however gets the better of me, and I pay the 16 Kroner (something like $2.30) for the ride.

I get home and find my bus card, placing it firmly in the plaid wallet my grandma got me for Christmas, after her dog ate my old one. This day I am victorious...but the bus will be waiting tomorrow...every ten minutes.

Copenhagen

Perusing the syllabus of my upcoming semester in Sweden, I believe I can safely assume it's going to be a blast. I really look forward to the five weeks of field experience I will gain in a Swedish high school (or in Swedish "Gymnasium") Somehow, in all of my preparation and looking toward the future, I failed to notice the itinerary for January 28-30: a trip to Copenhagen, Denmark.

Not a trip taken for leisure--though fun times were expected to be had. My classmates and I found out that this trip was planned and funded by our professors and the School of Education (or "Hogskolan i Larande"). We were responsible only for meal money. The trip to Copenhagen would include three of the four professors who run our course, and we 20 students who make up the Interculture Teacher class.

We left at 1 p.m. (or 1300 in Europe) and drove south for about three hours, until we hit the Swedish coast. Our bus docked onto a huge ferry that transported us for about twenty minutes across a canal. On the other side of the canal, we found ourselves in Denmark. Off to the North, as our teacher pointed out some spires not far away, is the castle where Shakespeare's play Hamlet is said to have taken place.

Copenhagen

We drive another 45 minutes and are in the heart of Copenhagen (or KØBENHAVN in Danish). All of us eat at a Turkish restraunt, and then Dr. Hans Christen Øster (our professor of philosophy and religion in education) takes us on an impromtu tour of downtown Copenhagen, where he went to University. We end our night in DanHostel, the largest hostel in Denmark, with a friendly game of poker with Mentos as chips. (Sarah from Sweden ended up with all the Mentos, much to the dismay of myself and Rodger from Holland.)

Early the next morning, we all wake to begin our fun-filled, educational day in Denmark. Initially at 7 am I'm not very thrilled about life, but watching the sunrise over Copenhagen quickly changes my mood.

Our first stop is at the Natalie Zahles school. This is an entire school system from primary school to high school and then a teacher college with a number of different buildings all located within one city block. The school, founded in 1853, was the first educational institution exclusively for women. More than 100 years later in 1967 men were admitted and the school has been open to all students who can afford it ever since.

Natalie Zahles school

After lunch, we were given an hour to wander Copenhagen before going on our next educational adventure. Most of the girls opted to check out the capitol city's shopping opportunities. I decided to take a walk throug a park located right in the middle of Copenhagen. It was beautiful weather, and the nature surrounded by the city was a fascinating and surreal environtment. A group of Ukrainian girls and I threw some Ukraine coins off a bridge into the stream, ensuring, according to legend, we would meet at that same spot again someday.

Central Park

After everyone re-grouped at the bus, we headed west on a main avenue in Copenhagen. The farther west we travelled, the greater the difference in the landscape became. Pretty soon store signs were exclusively in Arabic, and as we took a right and parked the bus, Hans Christian, our religious education professor, explained to us we were in the Muslim sector of Copenhagen, and our next site to be seen was a mosque.

As we, a group of 23, removed our shoes and entered the mosque, a man led us into a large room with carpet bearing diagonal lines running from one side of the room to the other. Hans Christian and the tour guide then explained to us a brief history of the Islamic faith, and then showed the group how a traditional prayer service in a Muslim mosque would be conducted.


Directly after this, a man, who's name I never caught, gave us a presentation about the multicultural challenges of being both Danish and Muslim. Copenhagen is home to about 120,000 Muslims and with the world's Islamaphobia, dispelling stereotypes and upholding traditional cultures has been an "interesting journey." It was very educational, and after learning about the Islamic faith in World History class at SDSU, and then watching major news networks "educate" the masses about the Muslim world, it was a great experience to sit down and talk honestly with someone about cultural and religious stereotypes, misunderstandings, and differences between two very contrasting worlds.

After the eye opening Islamic seminar, we were cut loose on the town and given from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. to explore Copenhagen. My friend, Ingebor, from Holland, and I walked around talking pictures, window shopping at Versace, and ended up eating at a resteraunt called "The American Pizza Buffet."

At 8:00 the class attended a big band swing concert featuring Bob Metzger and the Denmark Big Band. It was pretty much awesome.

The next morning the group checked out the motel and off we went to a private Arabic school system, much like the Natalie Zahles school, except instead of a Christian-based education, this school has a Muslim-oriented education system.

After getting a chance to to observe some class rooms in action, I have to say the aspect I was most intereste in was the language education. I got a chance to speak with two ninth-grade girls, one from Lebanon, the other from Syria, and they could carry on a conversation in Danish, Arabic, English, and French. Amazing.

As obvious as it may sound, it was amazing to see the two different schools and look at the plethora of differences between them, while at the same time notice that all the children had one thing in common: people who care about them. Whether Arabic Muslim or Danish Christian, there were teachers who believed in them and, regardless of religion or subject matter, both schools have the central goal to prepare the youth of today for, hopefully, a future with tolerance and understanding.

After grabbing some lunch at a Kebob resteraunt, we had one more stop to go, the Little Mermaid statue, as made famous by Copenhagen native Hans Christen Anderson.


It was an amazing trip. Not only did our class build relationships with each other through comradery and mutual experiences, but I got to see Copenhagen and the way children are being taught on the other side of the world.

And So It Begins

Patrick from Germany and I (on the left) having soup in a Gøteborg coffeeshop

Today was the first day of school here at Jonkoping University. Last week was orientation week, which is basically a blur of learning essential phrases in broken Swedish, meeting people from all over the globe, getting a feel for the lay of the land, and feeling victorious for doing everday things (e.g., grocery shopping, buying a bus ticket, and find out what time church starts).

In 10 days I have befriended people from Germany, France, Canada, the Czech Republic, Holland, and Australia. My roommates from Turkey, Mexico, and Tanzania have all cooked something from their homeland, and I may be addicted to coffee, as it is Swedish culture to have, minimum, two coffee breaks during the day.

On Saturday (1/20), as we had no homework yet, a group of us decided to take a trip to Gothenburg (or Gøteborg), the second largest city in Sweden at just over half a million. We left at about a quarter to eight in the morning, and as the sun doesn't rise until at least 8:30, I decided to take a nap on the bus. When I awoke, I was greeted by something of a blizzard outside my window, as in two short hours the landscape went from spring to winter, and me without a stocking cap.

Luckily, a kid from Quebec had an extra hat.

After a "ficka", which is Swedish for "coffee break" (history being that back in the day, during one of the wars I believe, coffee was rationed to the point of being outlawed, and thusly "ficka" became code for coffee), we intrepid tourists walked around Gothenburg, taking pictures and experiencing the Haga, or "old town."

After lunch, some more sight seeing, and another ficka, we decided to call it a day and head home.

Boulevard in Gøteborg

Alley in Gøteborg

Monday rolled around, and I prepared for my first day of international education.

I am enrolled in a 12-credit course called "The Intercultural Teacher." Some students would take two classes for a five-week period, and then the next period take a different class, and then for another five weeks take two different classes. I, however, am in a relatively new curriculum. The Intercultural Teacher course has only been offered once before in the Education program's short history (Jonkoping University as a whole was founded in 1996). We twenty students will, on Monday Wednesday and Friday, take part in various lectures from one of the four different teachers that provide input for the class. Tuesdays and Thursdays the class may not even meet, but we are still given projects and assignments to complete by the next official class day. There will be a fair amount of reading involved, but being a history major, that's nothing new. My class is small, but diverse. There are 20 of us, four being male. There is a strong representation from the Ukraine and Russia, and of course, Sweden. Other classmates hail from Holland, Somaila, Macedonia, and this guy, from the US.

Our education professors have a strong belief in unity and intercultural understanding. To "bring the group together" we are taking an exclusive class trip, funded by the university, to Copenhagen. During our three-day Copenhagen trip, we will stay in a YouthHostel and visit museums, as well as various institutes of education. For instance, on Monday (1/29) we will visit the finest teacher university in Denmark, and on Tuesday we will visit a private Muslim academy. I continue to be amazed by the beauty around me, though daily find things that remind me of my friends back home.

That's it for now. Go Jackrabbits!