Travel Writing Blog 8: So I'm Leaving On a Jet Plane. Almost Anyways.

Audience: Fellow Students of BGB who are just as sad as I am to leave

Purpose: to tell about my time in London and what I remember most from being here.

My days are numbered here across the Pond. Only a mere three and a half days stand between me and the good ol’ US of A. Oddly enough, I believe I may be just as excited to return home as I was waiting to venture over to Europe. Maybe it’s a combination of several factors, most of which include missing my family and friends (and my dog too)? London has, nevertheless, become my second home this summer. I walk the streets and pathways of London as I would in Waco, with a sense of certainty and a dash of confusion thrown in every now and then. I have been trying to soak in every last detail of this immense and cultured city. And no matter how much I’m ready to return to the States, London will always hold a soft spot deep within my heart.

What will I miss about London exactly? For lack of a better explanation, everything. There is almost a magical quality to a town you know nothing about, other than the fact they have a queen and a bridge. Add in the reality I have never ventured outside of our country’s broders before, and this study abroad experience was a whole new animal for me. What other town politely tells you to look left or right before crossing the street? Or no matter what news a person is informing you of, albeit good, bad, or indifferent, their accents make their statements always sound apologetic and sincere? Where else is it socially unacceptable to wear a t-shirt and Nike shorts unless you are taking a quick run through Hyde Park? Because that certainly is my wardrobe during the Indian days of summer back in the South. Proper is the best way I can adequately describe this country. I have yet to meet a rude or pretentious Englishmen, which reminded me of all the kind folks I left back in West Texas. I guess in that aspect, once you look past its initial surface qualities, England isn’t too terribly different from my homeland at all.

As I sit here trying to recall every significant difference between the United States and England, I keep coming back to the eerily similar qualities of both sets of inhabitants. While their attire and hairstyles can be construed as a little more fashion forward than Texas’ (surprisingly pink hair or combat boots hasn’t exactly caught on yet back home), I still notice the random acts of kindness people subtly perform without expecting a thank you or any sort of recognition in return. Whenever I appear lost, which is quite frequently these days, I have always had someone randomly ask if I need help with directions or if I know where I’m headed. Or there are men on the tube who graciously vacate their seats in order for an elderly woman to sit down for a brief moment between stops.  The inhabitant’s characteristics are what made me fall in love with London. The sights, sounds, and outer appearances are what I found endearing and never made me lost interest.

London simply wouldn’t be London if it weren’t for the exterior aspects of the city. Driving on the “wrong” side of the rode, tills instead registers, cheers instead of your welcome, and snogging instead of kissing are just a few variances in the English culture. Piccadilly Circus has all the glitz and flash of Time Square, minus the cloud gracing buildings and random nudists streaking about the streets. Harrods is  immense as well as infamous, and for good reason. Where else are you supposed to find pastries, coffee, champagne, teas from around the world, luggage, infant clothing, Cartier watches and wedding gowns all in one place? Besides Wal-Mart, it’s a one-stop shop that literally has something for everyone. Then there are the little nuances of London that just make it purely delightful and unique.  Brightly colored splashes of rich turquoise, raspberry, violet, and crimson cover many household doorways. The knobs of said doors aren’t located in their usual side placement, but rather in the direct center as if not to pick favorites with sides. Also, when running through Hyde Park, you are guaranteed to see something new and different every time you enter the gates. Just the other day while on an afternoon jog, a friend of mine stumbled upon a barely visible pathway that led to stairs nearly taken over by overgrowth. Areas like these make it feel as though London is cloaked with secrets, daring you to enter her city walls and find them for yourself. Everything about her is old and majestic. Whether you’re walking along Oxford Circus or casually strolling past Buckingham Palace, nothing seems purely ordinary about this city. It’s one of the many qualities I find special about her.

Coming from a small West Texas town most certainly allowed me to grow up sheltered. I was more than excited to visit so many “foreign” countries, only to return feeling foreign myself.  I never expected to fall in love with a city so decisively and quickly. I am going to miss being able to drink hot tea at any hour of the day and have it be socially acceptable. I am going to miss the wonderful accents and fish & chips served at almost every meal of the day. But most of all I am going to miss the sense of having so much freedom and the responsibility of doing what I want, when I want, and yet being so irresponsible with that same freedom I was given by doing what I want when I want. It’s hard to understand what people mean when they tell you “it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” But here in my last few days in London, I can honestly agree that this will most certainly happen only once in this small town girl’s life. And I could not be more grateful for that opportunity. 

Travel Writing Blog 7: One Thing My Mother Told Me to Never Discuss is Religion. Sorry Mom.

Audience: Baylor Line Magazine

Purpose: to observe different church services while touring through Europe.

I am a Southern Baptist. I have been my entire life. My mother grew up Southern Baptist and she has a Southern Baptist preacher for a brother, my Uncle Alan. I’ll be honest and say I know very little about other religions; I also know very little about other denominations for that matter. So to say attending a few different church services while traveling throughout Europe was an eye-opening experience would be like saying the landing on the moon was just a quick flight there and back. I’ve experienced more differentiation of church services here than I have my entire life. This small town girl’s views have been changed entirely, and I can say that I’m better because of it.

Our journey began in Italy, Catholic central to say the least. And every monument or historical marker had some sort of Catholic meaning to it. This was partially because we saw around four or five churches while in Italy. I won’t deny it; I’ve always approached Catholicism with caution. It could be because I never fully understood their traditions, or services for that matter. All I could tell you before this trip is that they stand up, sit down, and kneel quite frequently. However, after visiting some of the most renown and pristine Cathedrals in the world, my appreciation for the Church has grown immensely. Every cathedral paints an intimate portrait of how Christianity and Catholicism is upheld within the Italian borders. These churches have withstood countless battles and turmoil throughout centuries, yet they still stand proudly as if beckoning those from miles around to dare tarnish their gorgeous structure. When entering the Vatican, my heart literally stopped for a millisecond at the shear architecture and artistic detail found on every wall, ceiling, and floor tile. No stone went unpolished or untouched within this great infrastructure. Tapestries, mosaics, and painting depicted countless imagery found between the pages of the Bible. The Crucifixion and Fall from Grace were popular stories to recreate I gathered when wafting from room to room. But all fell short in comparison when I reached the Sistine Chapel. It appeared as if God himself had painted His story upon the grandiose ceiling and adjacent walls. Colors as vivid as the day they were painted leapt out at me, grabbing my undivided attention as my eyes darted from space to space. Now, I had always considered Catholicism to be very “by the rules” and all about the celebration and obeying of traditions. But the only word to describe these paintings was passion: passion for the Lord, passion for art, passion for the telling of the great stories from the Word. No one, not even a cynic like me, could deny the intimacy that was blatantly shown between the artists, their work, and the Maker.

The Vatican could unarguably be considered the most famous chapel of all time. However, Italy proudly boasts several more cathedrals that come dangerously close to Vatican status. Between the shear immenseness of St. Peter’s Basilica in Florence, or the quiet boldness of St. Francis’s Cathedral in Assisi, I was immersed in such timeless Catholic culture that my appreciation delved much deeper than that of some tourist from the Southern United States. I lived, ate, and breathed the lifestyle of Italian Catholics. Their services appeared much less monotonous than I had originally perceived them. Instead of mindless chanting and droning, I heard tradition and rituals that have been in tact since the second century. It’s difficult to refute something that has literally withstood the test of time. The checklist I had started to accumulate in my head of all the “old churches” I had seen so far in Europe began to deteriorate as the importance of their history and grandeur took precedence.

Traveling onward to London was the next great journey Baylor in Great Britain began to tackle. This time, the planned guided walking tours were nowhere in sight, and we were up to our own devices to figure out this great city on our own accord. I began in the most romantic place I could think of, Westminster Abbey. Truly the vision of fairytale weddings and romances gone right, Westminster has proven itself to be THE church of the royal family. And why shouldn’t it? Being an Anglican Church means it is part of the Church of England. This also means it is a far cry from the Roman Catholic Churches of Italy. One could consider these two churches to be stepbrother and sister, with an ongoing battle of sibling rivalry that lasted for centuries. Now, however, the Anglican Church is mainly known for its choral music and immaculate choirs. Once inside Westminster, I felt like I was taken back to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding. I was one of several thousands of Americans to wake up at four in the morning in order to watch Kate Middleton take her first few precious steps down the never-ending center aisle, walking towards her literal Prince Charming. The aisle was as grandiose as its portrayal on TV, as was the rest of Westminster. The vaulted ceiling created a sense of inadequacy as they towered above you with their intricate wooden arches and panels. As I took my place in the pew, a dreamlike state overtook me. It dawned on me that generations of royalty and wealth have sat in the exact seat in which I occupied. Chills ran up my arm as the choir began to sing. If I had to envision what the choirs of angels sounded like in heaven, the Westminster choirs came eerily close.  It was an out of body experience. I also found it intriguing that the entire worship was sung or chanted. I have always been accustomed to singing worship for a portion of the service, but not the entire procession. Before I knew it, the service was over, and a sense of calm and surreal accompanied me out of the church. Although the differences between the Anglican Church and the Roman Catholic Church are stark, the passion behind every instance was the same. The passion in the Anglican Church was their music, rather than the art and imagery found in the Catholic Churches.

After leaving Westminster, I was on some sort of religious high. I could barely get enough of the different cultures and denominations Europe and England had to offer, so when I found out there was a Hillsong United located in London, I knew what my next “church” stop would be. Hillsong Church began in Australia and has since become a Pentecostal megachurch spreading across the several European countries, including Sweden, Ukraine, and Germany, as well as the UK and New York City in America. The unique thing about Hillsong London is that while it’s classified as a megachurch, the worship service doesn’t even take place within a sanctuary.  Hillsong London meets every Sunday at 10:30 am, 3:30 pm, and 6 pm at the Dominion Theatre in the heart of London. When entering the theatre, I didn’t feel as though I was about to praise or worship whatsoever. The stage was set up like some sort of rock concert, and the band was about to perform at any moment. While there actually was a band in attendance, six worship leaders joined the stage as well and began one of the most mind-blowing experiences I have ever taken part of or witnessed. The term worship took on an entirely new meaning here: hands were held high, heads were bowed down, some people were jumping around excitedly, while others sat in prayerful silence. The atmosphere was thick, and it was laden with passionate praise. This service, surprisingly enough, was the one I could most relate to. I attend Vertical Ministries when back in Waco. Vertical is a praise and worship night geared specifically toward the students of Baylor. It has a similar feel and praise quality, but nothing of Hillsong’s magnitude. The preacher at Hillsong rose and began preaching a typical sermon, except in a heavy Australian accent. He concluded with a final prayer, and the worship band played while we exited the theater. Again, so much passion filled that room it was almost tangible.

The common thread between these entirely distinctive churches became blatantly evident upon each visitation. Regardless of what “denomination” their titles claim, the passion each church was consumed with was what clearly made them united in Christianity.  It was comforting to realize that the passion Christians share through their unifying belief has transcended not only centuries, but also several divisions of the churches and disagreements that have lasted decades. This idea of commonality even among separate nations is almost mind blowing to a simple small town girl who has attended the same church her entire life. I realize that while I was merely a tourist visiting a foreign church for only an hour or so at a time, I still was able to grasp how high in regard these people uphold religion, more specifically Christianity. After a while, I no longer felt like I was a stranger in the back pew awkwardly observing a foreign church service. I was submerging myself in a lifestyle, even if only for a brief moment. I felt what these people felt and experienced their profession of faith for myself. While the history and culture is what makes most of these places famous, it is their legacy and tradition and values that give breath and life to each individual church. And that is passion we can all see and appreciate.

Travel Writing Blog 6: Great Scot.

Audience: Travel Magazine, National Geographic

Purpose: to explain in detail the sights and happenings that add to the wonder of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Have you ever seen anything just so pure and raw in natural form that it literally took your breath away? Neither have I. That is, until I visited Edinburgh, Scotland. Even the train ride in was unlike any other: hundreds upon thousands of dingy white sheep dotted the sloping hills, grass so green it would make even Elphaba from Wicked cringe, and pristine blue waves crashed against the gray cliffs causing foam to cling to the sandy edges. Scotland epitomizes nature and all things untainted. It truly was a once in a lifetime experience from the moment I stepped off the train till the moment I boarded the train back to King’s Cross.

As I stepped off the train, it was as if my world had changed from sepia-toned hues to vivid Technicolor.  At this moment in time, I was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Even there air was crisper and cleaner.  The wind was nippy and made the hairs on my arms stand on end. But it wasn’t an unwelcomed feeling. Although we were still within the hustle and bustle of the train station, it still felt quieter and calmer than London ever has.  We caught a cab to our dorm-converted bed and breakfast, rooms not unlike the Imperial College dorms we have been occupying for the past 4 weeks. The night concluded with a hop and a skip over to a pub-laden square where we had traditional pub food, fish and chips with ale to wash it all down. Strength we acquired from that food was needed for the adventure we had awaiting us in the morning.

The majority of us drug ourselves out of bed, had breakfast, and were rearing and ready to go by around 10:30 the next morning. I casually asked what everyone’s plans were for the day when, to my surprise, I was informed we were going mountain climbing. Wait, um, what? Yes, I had heard correctly. The plan was to scale the peak situated a few hundred meters adjacent to where we were staying. I remember looking at the beast remembering just how proud and defiant it had appeared when driving into town. It could even be seen from the train station several miles away. Never, ever did I imagine that I would be climbing that while visiting Edinburgh. Nevertheless, climbing is what we did. And we sure did do a lot of it.

Now, I consider myself a decently athletic individual. However, outdoorsy and mountain hiker-y are not the adjectives I would used to describe my most dominant characteristics.  In fact, I didn’t even think to pack a pair of tennis shoes for this weekend getaway. The most hiking boot-like shoes I had were my TOMS. I’ll be the first to admit that canvas and a thin piece of leather are not the ideal thing to wear while scaling peaks, but I had to make do and wear them despite my whimpering feet’s opposition.  We first crossed a grassy field, which appropriately made me want to sing “the Hills are Alive With the Sound of Music” from The Sound of Music. Then we reached the base of the mountain. I daringly look up, and up, and up some more. My head was literally craned as far back as it could go before losing my equilibrium. Well, here goes nothing. And by nothing, I mean here goes my first time ever climbing a mountain.

Luckily for me and a few other females who were less than prepared to hike up a mountain, there was a set marked path to follow up the mountainside. The path consisted of firmly packed rocks that hard formed into makeshift stairs over time. The first few “flights” were brutal, but once I glanced over my shoulder to take in the scenery, the tiredness was well worth it. Nothing looks ordinary or normal several thousand feet in the air. The sky looked as vast and open as it does in West Texas, something I hadn’t seen in the past 4 weeks. Cathedrals were clearly visible over the squat buildings that surrounded the entire landscape. And the North Sea stretched as far as my eyesight allowed.  The view was truly majestic, and we were barely halfway up the peak.

After taking the occasional rest stop and several hundreds of Kodak moment worth photos, we trudged the last few meters up to the summit. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a prouder moment. I’ve never faced something so daunting and foreign to me before only to triumph over it like I had been climbing for years. The wind whipped our tangley hair in our faces and made our cheeks and noses turn Rudolph-red, but none of us cared. We were literally on top of the world, of Edinburgh at the very least. The gorgeous countryside was visible for miles. I sat on a rock for a few minutes and just reflected on the past hours worth of work it took to reach this once in a lifetime point. We all took our final “group picture” at the summit and solemnly made our slow-paced way back to the base of the mountain. Our climb may have come to a close, but the memories I soaked in while on top of that peak will stay with me long after the pictures we took there fade.

The rest of Edinburgh was delightful. Kilts and bagpipes were abundant, so was questionable eateries. But that mountain was definitely the cherry on top of an already sublime trip. That’s what I’ve enjoyed so much about BGB, the freedom to just pick up on a whim and travel to amazing places such as Edinburgh just whenever the mood strikes.  Edinburgh now holds a special place in my heart and I can’t wait to brag to my parents how lucky they are to have such an awesome mountain climbing, adventurous daughter.  I’m sure they will be oh-so-proud.

Travel Writing Blog 5: Was That Our Train That Just Left?! Uh Oh.

Audience: Anyone who has terrible luck with traveling.

Purpose: to explain how to keep calm in a crisis and understand that the journey, (miscommunication, frustration, and all) is just as important as your destination.

If there were an award for most likely to never be on time for anything in their life, I would most certainly win that trophy. I barely have time to brush my teeth in the morning because I’m so pressed for time. This trait, among many others, I inherited from my darling father. The weekend a large group of us decided to trek to Edinburgh was no exception. The ever-popular phrase “here we go again” comes to mind whenever I find myself in these types of predicaments. However, over and over again I somehow find the humor in every situation (usually occurring after the incident) and realize my life in fact did not end because I was tardy or not the first to arrive at a destination.

Our free weekend plans had been decided. We would travel to the picturesque countryside of Scotland and reside for a couple of days in the town of Edinburgh. The train would depart at one o’clock sharp, which left little room for error with time between leaving class, grabbing lunch, and taking the tube to King’s Cross Train Station. We all headed toward the South Kensington tub stop, heavy suitcases in tow, looking as touristy as ever while we chattered excitedly about kilts and haggis, which turned out to be absolutely terrible in case you were wondering. As we all took out our Oyster cards to enter the station, I noticed my friend Jenn’s expression slowly turned from happiness to panic as she dug frantically in her purse. She finally proclaimed “I don’t have my card with me.” Being the only person who had witnessed this, I waited as she bought a one-day travel ticket in order to board the tube. It only took her about three minutes to buy the ticket. But those precious few moments were the deciding factors that altered the course for the rest of the day.

By the time we reached the Piccadilly tube line, our group was nowhere to be found. We impatiently waited for the tube, which usually approaches the stop every 1-3 minutes. But of course, today was quite unusual, and we waited for an excruciating 15 minutes before the tube came to pick us up. The night before, a few of us had timed precisely how long we anticipated our lunch and travel time to take. Then we agreed on a meeting time to head over to the station so we wouldn’t have to rush to make the train. That all flew out the window when we lost those first 3 minutes of travel time. Jenn and I couldn’t believe our series of unfortunate events. Any other day we would have had to just walk a little more briskly through the train station to make our departure time. This day, though, was basically a lost cause. We spoke of our options as we rode the tube to King’s Cross. As one o’clock loomed closer and closer, we decided that our best plan of action would to just take a long lunch and catch the two o’clock train. That would leave us only an hour behind the group. No big deal, right?

King’s Cross seemed unusually crowded for an early Friday morning. It was too crowded to actually sit and eat the leisurely lunch Jenn and I had planned, so instead, we grabbed pre-made sandwiches and fresh fruit and awaited the platform number for our train to be revealed. We had arrived almost 45 minutes early for our train, and we knew the platform numbers weren’t usually shown until 20-25 minutes before departure time. Twenty minutes passed then 25, then 30. At this point we began to sweat a little. Ten minutes is a small window to try and make a train. Finally, the screen flashed the platform number, and the floodgates opened. I pretty certain every single person in King’s Cross was bolting for the same Edinburgh-bound train. We bobbed and weaved our way through the immense crowds, being slightly pushed or jarred with every inch of progress we made. Eventually, we reached the first class carriage. “We’re home free,” I foolishly thought as we boarded.

Once upon the train, we perused first class for a couple of non-reserved first class seats. To our horror, as walked down the aisle it appeared as if every first-class seat was accounted for whether by another patron or reservation. Then as if on cue, the conductor came on over the loudspeaker to announce “this train is almost completely reserved, so if you didn’t make a reservation I would suggest you take another train.” This had to be joke. We became frenzied as we hurried to the next cabin, hoping and praying there were two available seats. Finally we found them, gloriously situated next to one another joined by a table and two other passengers who were already seated. This is when we realized that the two occupants were none other than Susan and her fiancé, Miles, both attending Baylor in Great Britain. It was a Godsend. There’s no doubt in my mind the Lord helped us make it through that day without breaking down into hysterics or deciding the trip wasn’t worth all this added stress.

We ended up having an absolutely wonderful train ride. Complimentary food and beverages were abundant, and Susan and Miles made for excellent conversation and traveling companions. Although we had probably one of the rockiest starts possible to a trip, the journey became one of our favorite and most memorable parts about our excursion to Edinburgh. The “moral” I suppose I took away from this story is to realize that not everything is within our power or control, and that sometimes we need to sit back and just let the journey happen. Now, the destination was equally as satisfying as the journey I will admit. But Jenn and I had a much better story to take away with us to later tell our family than the rest of the group after it was said and done. So I guess that makes us victorious in the end. Perfect.