Month: July 2025

After only a couple of weeks of living in Germany, I had the opportunity to go and travel around Western Europe with some of my best friends.

For those of you reading this who somehow don’t know this about me, I have a group of friends I’ve had my whole life. Hannah I met when I was 2 at an early childhood daycare. Maria, Coral, Terra, and JJ I met in preschool, when I was 4. We all attended the Carbondale Community School (CCS) for nine years together, all the way from kindergarten to 8th grade. Hannah, JJ, Maria, and I all attended CRMS together for high school (we still remained close with Coral and Terra during those years, despite them attending a different school). 

In college we all began to spread apart and find our own identities. There were times when some of us drifted away from the group, or there would be a rift between certain members of the group–but, eventually, we always found our way back to each other. There is an indelible bond between the six of us. We’ve seen each other through over 30 years of life together. We know all of the history, all of the embarrassing stories, all of the growth, all of the mistakes–and we have kept choosing to love each other through it all. In many ways, they feel more like siblings to me than friends.

Traveling around Europe together seems like something we would have dreamed of doing as children, although I admittedly don’t have any specific memories around such dreams. But who doesn’t dream of one day frolicking around Europe with their best friends?

The timing was perfect. Maria was living in France, working as an acrobat for Paris Disney. I had just moved to Germany. JJ already had plans to travel over to Europe to see other friends. With half of the group already over here, there was enough momentum towards actually making a trip like this a reality. 

We knew we wanted to visit Paris, primarily to see Maria perform in her role as a wall-jumping Mome Rath in the show “Alice and the Queen of Hearts: Back to Wonderland” (now running thrice daily at Paris Disney, if anyone gets the chance to go see). We also knew we had interest in seeing more of Europe than just Paris. We decided to start our trip in Amsterdam, then move our way down The Netherlands, check out Brussels, then finish our trip in Paris.

Coral, Hannah, and JJ booked their flights to Europe. Terra was, quite unfortunately, unable to make the trip. She had some things she needed to prioritize this early summer, including dealing with DOGE threatening the livelihood of both her and her husband (they both work as environmental engineers for the Army Corps of Engineers. Their job of dismantling American-made land mines–of which there are startling many just laying around–was deemed “inessential”. They had a higher-up tell them essentially that environmental engineering was in and of itself inessential for the Army Corps of Engineers, and that the organization had to focus on the “war effort”. What?!?! Fortunately neither took the deal DOGE offered them to resign, and so far both still have their jobs. Let’s hope that remains the case, uggh).

The Netherlands (Amsterdam and Delft)

Due to some scheduling confusion, I ended up making my trip out to Amsterdam a day earlier than the rest. I was able to take advantage of the wonderful European train system to make my way down to Berlin from Greifswald (we took many a train on this trip). I caught a flight from Berlin to Amsterdam that took about 40 minutes, and navigated my way to my capsule hotel for the night in South Amsterdam. My tiny room in the capsule hotel was actually quite nice and cozy. It had a perilously high bunk (I’m not sure why, there wasn’t anything happening under the bunk that I could see, just a wall), and its own little bathroom, which even included a little shower. There turned out to not be a lot happening–culture-wise–in South Amsterdam. I was near a university, and there were a lot of open spaces to enjoy nature.

I ended up taking a long walk through open spaces, along canals, and under giant sycamores that lined the streets to have a nice–though quite expensive–veggie burger for dinner. I then made my way back, enjoying checking out the nice homes along the canals, and had an early night in at the hotel, feeling very cozy in my towering bunk and tiny room. Despite each leg of the trip not lasting that long while traveling from Greifswald to Amsterdam, it all added up to a long day of travel. I knew it was nothing compared to what my friends were currently enduring on their way to Europe, however. I wanted to be fresh and ready to support them as they arrived the following day.

Coral, Hannah, and JJ arrived early in the morning that next day, after traveling for over 20 hours. They all had trouble sleeping on the flight, and so were very, very exhausted and jet lagged. I actually didn’t see JJ that first morning because she left first thing to visit another friend of hers that was living in another Dutch town outside of Amsterdam. As it tends to go, our AirBnB didn’t allow check-in until mid-afternoon. The AirBnB was a nice place in a small town just to the north of Amsterdam called Koog Aan de Zaan.

Coral, Hannah, and I met up that first morning and decided to head straight to central Amsterdam to spend our day touring while we waited for the AirBnB. We found locker storage near the central train station, and set off to go wandering. As soon as we were out of the doors of the train station, we were amazed at how beautiful Amsterdam was. South Amsterdam, where I had spent the night before, felt much like anywhere else in contemporary Europe. Central Amsterdam was distinctly its own thing, right away. Of course, there are all of the canals everywhere that Amsterdam is famous for–and then rising from the canals are these old, beautiful buildings, looking much as I imagine they have for hundreds of years. We actually learned that all of central Amsterdam is a UNESCO heritage site, and so the owners of the buildings are not allowed to tear them down or change their facades. We encountered several buildings–like hotels–that had gutted the interior to form the space they needed for their business, while maintaining the exterior. 

Hannah and Coral were true troopers that day, as we spent our whole day walking while they were exhausted. We had interest to scope it out and see where some of the attractions were. We discovered that the famous Red Light District during the day was almost indistinguishable from the rest of the city–except for a discernibly higher density of sex and weed shops (although shops of both kinds could be found everywhere in the city). We stopped only a couple of times to have small bites and coffee/drinks. Hannah and Coral found that as long as they were moving, they felt better–so we mostly walked.

Eventually, it was late enough that we made our way to Koog Aan de Zaan. A wonderful feature of the public transport throughout both The Netherlands and Belgium was that all buses and trains were tap to pay. As long as you had a card on your phone, you could easily board any public transit without worrying about tickets. However, as we discovered on that first day–make sure you always tap out as well. There were a couple of rides where I thought that I didn’t need to tap out and I ended up being charged for the maximum ride time (I ended up paying 40 EUR for what should have been about 7 EUR worth of rides). We still arrived too early at the AirBnb and loitered awkwardly on a nearby street until check-in time.

Our AirBnB was nice, but absolutely was designed without much thought for longterm stays. The host had warnings on the site about the showers, and how they tend to flood, but we didn’t really fully realize the extent to which that happened–which was every time someone showered. However, we were able to settle in. Fortunately there was a grocery store nearby and I went shopping to make everyone dinner. I knew well the feeling of extreme jet lag and how the last thing you wanted when you were that tired was to make decisions. I figured the best thing to do was just to cook a nice cozy meal at home, so that Coral and Hannah could go and crash as soon as they needed. 

The next day we set out to explore Zaanse Schans, a historic neighborhood in north Amsterdam that was actually quite close to where we were staying. We were able to navigate our way there via public transport again, this time taking a very little bus (more like a large van). We stopped to have a very pleasant lunch at Wolfsend before crossing over the bridge and checking out the windmills.

Someone on the bus let us know that this is the last year that Zaans Schans would be free and open to visitors. I’m glad we caught it in its last free year! It was fun checking out the old windmills (originally used as sawmills), clog shops, cheese artisans, and chocolatiers. It was a very pleasant way to spend a morning.

We then had interest to go and check out a completely different vibe and part of town. It was suggested by my brother to go check out the street art district, NDSM-Werf. When he had traveled to Amsterdam in his college days, checking out green engineering projects around Europe, there was an infamous event that took place in NDSM at the NDSM-Loods. The NDSM-Loods is a large maker and artisan space that was renovated from an old ship-building warehouse. Inside there were stacked shipping containers that were used as offices/workshops for artists, and sometimes were turned into giant art displays themselves. When Will went to check this out, he happened to go during a juggalo convention. As he tells it, the primary door (a very large garage-type door) began closing for some reason, causing the juggalos to panic and begin to riot. My brother was trapped amongst the rioting juggalos until he eventually found a side door and was able to scoot his way to safety. It was a dream come true seeing the setting for that story in person (also, it was just cool in its own right).

We had some beers and delicious truffle fries next door (I learned there that Heineken comes from Amsterdam) before we navigated back to the AirBnB to reunite with JJ. We had some more grocery-store fare for dinner and stayed up late chatting and reminiscing with the expanded crew.

The following day Maria was able to join us. Her schedule allows her to take three days off in between her performing days, and so she was with us for the rest of our time in Amsterdam. After scooping up Maria from the central train station, we made our way into the city. We had an appointment to tour the Van Gogh museum. First, we stopped for a quick lunch where Maria tried the Dutch cuisine of bitterballen. We didn’t know what they were–turns out they’re breaded balls of beef gravy, essentially.

I was very excited to go to the museum. I love Van Gogh’s art, and I am very aware that it has influenced my own style greatly. The first time I remember feeling incredibly moved by a painting was seeing Van Gogh’s The Ravine at an impressionist exhibit at the Denver Art Museum. It was the view from his room in the asylum, that he painted over another of his works during his stay there. There’s something incredibly potent about seeing Van Gogh’s art in person, because it has such distinct brush strokes. I feel that I can almost see him painting each stroke, and am constantly struck by the reality that he actually created what I see in front of me. It was fascinating to learn more about his journey as an artist, and to see it as it developed at each stage. 

After the museum we found some delicious gelato and then made our way to a park. We enjoyed the sun (and didn’t enjoy the aggressive way that the local birds sought food from people). JJ headed back early to get work done, and JJ, Coral, Maria, and I went to a food hall for some dinner. It was a fantastic food hall and had so many tempting choices. Hannah and I opted for sushi burritos, and I tried a “Pornstar Martini”, which I saw offered almost everywhere. It was all very pleasant. From there, Hannah headed back to the AirBnB while Maria, Coral, and I ventured out to find some stroopwafels. A fresh stroopwafel is incredible–perhaps the most delectable part of it, though, is the aroma. They offer such a scrumptious, warm-honey, baked good smell. 

The following day we had an easy-going morning. We eventually made our way into the city around noon. We found an incredibly charming spot for brunch called De Laatste Kruimel–it was a tiny building with two levels for dining, and connecting the two levels (and the third level up to the bathroom) were tiny, steep stairs. On each level there were beautiful pastries, sandwiches, coffee and teas.

Following our cute brunch we went on a charming canal tour cruise. We had spotted several of the cruise businesses on the canals in our days before, and we had decided that Friendship would be the choice for us. Not only was it, obviously, poetically accurate for our current trip in Amsterdam–but they seemed to be some of the more relaxed, spacious, and comfortable of the boats we saw out on the water. 

We had opted for one of their “booze cruise” packages, and while we were treated to a very interesting tour of Amsterdam as seen from the waters, we were also treated to bottomless rosé. I kept getting awarded bonus shots of this super sweet alcohol as well because the tour guides would offer trivia questions (if answered correctly, one was awarded with the shot), and my Hermione-ass couldn’t help but try to get all of them right. I’m tempted to write out all of the fun facts and interesting history we learned while on the cruise, but then I think that would end up being a lot of text. So, instead, I’ll just urge anyone visiting Amsterdam to take a cruise yourself and learn it that way!

For dinner that night we had dinner at Oriole, a “Michelin Bib” (which I continuously remember as “Michelin Bag”) restaurant that Coral had found. As one might expect, it was a fantastic meal. Oysters are one of the only animals I eat (I’ll only eat mollusks, for various reasons), and so I had some oysters for an appetizer, followed by some beets cooked so well that they were tender like filet, and an incredible coffee mousse-type dessert. It was delightful.

Our last day in Amsterdam started out with meeting up with JJ’s friend, Max. We made a point to have our last breakfast in Amsterdam be poffertjes (mini puffed pancakes). They were so yummy, and the texture really was the best part. They were chewy and perfect.

We then went to check out the Embassy of the Free Mind, a library of collected esoterica and mystical writings. I wish we could have spent longer there–it really is meant to be the type of place where you sit and do extended study for hours (or days). As a museum, it needed some help–there were a lot of descriptions of esoteric organizations and events that implied knowledge on behalf of the patron. For example, there was a lot about “Rosicrucianism”, but no explanation at any point on what that means. Regardless, I like the idea of spending some time there to get ideas for novels or stories. 

At this point we started to move south in The Netherlands. We had plans to check out Rotterdam for the later half of that day. Our next AirBnB was in the little town of Delft, located halfway between Rotterdam and The Hague. Maria and Max joined us on the trip to Rotterdam, where we met up with a couple of Maria’s friends who just so happened to be traveling up to Amsterdam on their own European trip. We had a lovely lunch right there next to Rotterdam’s central train station. After lunch, Maria and Max each went their own ways. Hannah, Coral, JJ, and I decided that we were actually too tired to try to explore Rotterdam. We just wanted to get to our AirBnB. 

We took a bus to Delft, and upon arriving, we were immediately charmed by the town. It had a similar feeling to Greifswald, in that it was a pleasant, mid-sized European city with some medieval charm. We navigated the cobblestone streets and canals until we found our way to our AirBnB–which was quite cozy and nice. We had decided that we were just going to spend the night in Delft. We all had interest in checking out the Hague, but left the decision to visit there until the next day. 

We found a highly-rated, tiny Ramen shop, and had a great dinner of noodles there. We then made our way to central Delft and an outdoor patio bar. There are many such places around Europe, with a bar or cafe setting out a huge array of tables outside where patrons can sit and relax. I have never been pressured by any waitstaff in Europe to release my table. Almost always one needs to ask directly for the check–otherwise, the waitstaff will let you sit as long as you like. This is true even after the check is paid.

At the bar we indulged in some of our favorite European beverages. Hannah was exulting in her new favorite beverage–the Aperol Spritz (which is ubiquitously offered everywhere I’ve been in Europe). Coral, with their vast knowledge of beverages accumulated over years of working in breweries and distilleries–introduced us to a favorite beverage of theirs, the kriek. Krieks are Belgian beers fermented with cherries. It tastes just like a cherry soda, and is quite delicious. 

The next day we woke up exhausted. We had reached a point where we needed rest. We debated in the morning for some time because we all genuinely had interest in checking out The Hague but also enjoyed the idea of spending more time in Delft. Ultimately, our exhaustion made the decision for us, and we spent the day in Delft. I actually had a bit of an emotional breakdown (read: I was a hot mess), and so the decision ended up being the best one. We spent the day in many of the charming coffee shops and little boutiques settled into the streets of Delft before we caught our train to Brussels. 

Brussels

Although still undoubtedly exhausted, we also definitely got a second wind when we arrived in Brussels. I was the most excited for this leg of the trip because I knew the least about Brussels. In many ways, I’m still rather ignorant about it. Although we had a very fun couple of days in the city, they were not the most informative in terms of its history or civics.

Unlike our two previous AirBnBs (which were located largely outside of the city centers in Koog Aan de Zaan and Delft), our AirBnB in Brussels was smack dab in the middle of the action, which was actually really great. We were staying right next to the palace, amidst a sea of bars, restaurants, and museums. Anything we wanted to do was only a few minutes walk away.

That night we got some yummy Turkish street food (in Germany it is called Döner) and meandered our way to the palace square. Unbeknownst to us there just happened to be a large, free jazz festival that weekend in the palace square. We had beverages in the square, enjoying them on the patio situated right in the midst of it all, surrounded by palaces. We then called it a night, excited to spend the night in our unique AirBnB.

The AirBnB itself was situated inside the walls of a church, although it was tucked into it from the side. It was three stories, and to get in we first had to ascend some steep, narrow stairs. Upstairs there was a comfortable kitchen, living room, and bathroom. Climb some more narrow stairs and you get to the level with two of the bedrooms. Climb one more ladder, and you got to the last bed, tucked away at the top in a loft. It was beautiful and felt modern, yet cozy, tucked into the church as it was.

The following day was Hannah’s birthday. It was a very, very rainy day. We wanted some Belgian waffles for breakfast–as you know, we were in Belgium after all. We actually learned that what Americans consider “Belgian” waffles are actually called something else in Belgium, and aren’t really considered Belgian waffles. Most Belgians actually get their waffles from food trucks, and I believe are eaten as a hand-held food. We never tried true Belgian waffles. Instead we were treated to a nice breakfast of savory “Belgian” waffles, most of us opting for an Eggs Benedikt on a waffle, with Bloody Marys. 

We did some shopping, buying Belgian chocolates and other goods for our loved ones. To spend the rest of our day, we decided on a couple of “museums” that seemed like unique experiences. 

The first one we visited was the Museum of Infinite Realities. We didn’t really know what we were getting into with this one, which was a huge part of the appeal. The best we could tell beforehand, it was some sort of interactive and immersive personality test. This turned out to be pretty much what it was, and it was quite a good time. You get escorted through several different stages, and by the end you’re promised that your spirit animal will be revealed to you (it can only be one of six: lion, bear, tiger, eagle, wolf, or fox). The first stage was a Millionaire-style multiple choice quiz–about yourself. We circled around a big device with buttons and were asked questions like, “What do you do after a big party?” or “How spiritual are you?” The results of the less intimate questions were revealed to the whole group (we were with about 20 other people). 

There were several rooms where we interacted with the “animals” in different ways, to see which one we resonated with more. My favorite room was where we chose, with no prior information, either “Everything” or “Nothing”. Just earlier that day I believe I was espousing to my friends the Zen teaching that “nothing” is “everything”–so we all naturally chose “Nothing” (it was the less popular of the two). We were treated to a totally psychedelic light show, appropriately accompanied by an Alan Watts narration.

In the end, JJ and Hannah were assigned foxes (the rarest of the types, we learned), Coral was a wolf and I was an eagle. I was surprised because I definitely thought I was going to get a lion. The eagle was pretty chill though–it seemed to be a pretty spiritual one.

The next “museum” was the Museum of Illusions. Just like the last “museum”, this was more of an interactive experience than a museum. It was a collection of visual illusions. There were some you just looked at, but most of them were interactive. We had our most fun with the stages they set up for people to take photos that are optical illusions. We were fortunate enough to have the place essentially to ourselves, and so we spent a lot of time laughing and taking silly pictures, like something we had done as teens. It was very fun.

We went afterwards for drinks at the rooftop bar above Belgium Beer World (which is I believe another interactive museum). We took some more fun photos in a photobooth here, and looked out over a rainy Brussels. We were determined to go dancing for Hannah’s birthday, and so after a dinner of some Thai food, we went back to the AirBnB to recoup. We were, yet again, exhausted. We had a day of a lot of fun. It had been a while since I have had to rally to go dancing at 10 at night. But rally we did. It was helpful that the bar where we wanted to go dancing was only a 1 minute walk from the AirBnB. We were intrigued by it because it said it was both an Irish Pub and a disco. 

We spent the rest of our night having fun at said establishment. We got there just as karaoke started–and although none of us performed, we had fun singing along with the performers. Most everyone was singing American songs that we were familiar with. In fact, most of the people in The Netherlands and Brussels we encountered were perfectly fluent in English. This is good, because none of us spoke either Dutch or Belgian. Dutch was very close to German, and I could navigate through some of it (not that my German was that excellent)–but as I said then, where as with German it feels like there’s too many consonants in the words, with Dutch it feels like there’s too many vowels. In Belgium it actually seemed like most people and signs defaulted to French.

After karaoke we indeed danced, and it was very fun. This was the only night of the whole trip where we had to deal with creepy guys, and even while clubbing they were mostly few and far between. It was something we noticed throughout our trip: In America–usually, especially, as a group–we would attract unwanted attention from men. However, for the most part we felt respected and unafraid while we were traveling. Generally, it seems that European men are less prone to being outward creeps, so that was nice.

The next morning was a Sunday and I was awoken by the sound of the church bells above us summoning the people to service (it seems I was the only one awoken by the bells, but perhaps my body is especially primed for it after living as a monk and being awoken by bells daily). For our last morning in Brussels we had a weird breakfast at The Drug Opera (of course, we were intrigued with that name–I recommend actually clicking on the link for it and checking out their website. It’s also quite something.) It was a beautiful building that housed, what it turns out, to be more or less a Cheesecake Factory. It was a huge menu offering subpar food, but we were into the weirdness of the whole thing nonetheless.

JJ stayed behind to do a bit of work while Coral, Hannah, and I went to visit Mannekin Pis, a famous fountain that has the statue of a boy peeing. It turned out to be rather small. In fact, even though I was navigating us to it, I missed it, it was so nondescript. After this last bit of tourism, we caught our train to Paris.

Paris

We met back up with Maria at the train station for Disney Paris. Here we needed to stop and download the app for public transit in Paris. This app turned out to be frustrating, as was a lot of our public transit in Paris. During our time there we had several instances where everything should have been working, but wasn’t. 

From there we made our way to the little village of Lagny, which is where we stayed during this leg of the trip. It was a charming little village, complete with a small market square with a plethora of little shops–a boulangerie, patisserie, grocer, cafe. That night we got sushi takeout and ate by the river. There was an unhoused gentleman who came to ask us for a Euro and he was not at all deterred by the fact that we didn’t speak French–for you see, he could also speak English, and Russian. After regaling us with the virtues of Russia, he left us to our dinner. We all reflected on how in Europe, even the unhoused people spoke three languages.

We went to bed early because we had a BIG day ahead of us the next day. It was Disney day, baby. We had access to both parks with our tickets (Maria was able to procure guest tickets for most of us–we all had to split the cost of only one ticket). However, we needed to get into the park with Maria, which meant we either needed to go in early, when she started her work day, or at noon, when she had her lunch break. We opted for noon. We needed the rest. 

We started our Disney day at Walt Disney Studio Park, which is home to Maria’s show (“Alice and the Queen of Hearts: Back to Wonderland”). We had a quick lunch with Maria with sandwiches and salads she procured from the staff canteen. We had a little bit of time before her first show, so all together we chose to ride Aladdin’s Magic Carpet. I was not a fan. I get motion sick easily and was nearly done in by this first (rather tame) ride. Fortunately, I remembered I had some Dramamine in my purse, and that helped me get through the rest of the day. 

Maria left us to prepare for her show, and we were able to squeeze in one ride on The Avengers rollercoaster. I entered the day feeling pretty sure that I wasn’t going to go on too many rides, given my proclivity towards motion sickness and my aversion to that stomach-flailing feeling of a sudden drop that is so often elicited in roller coasters. That said, I gave The Avengers ride a whirl, and I’m glad I did. It was very fun. 

Maria’s show was spectacular (yes, for us it certainly was her show). Maria is a trampwall artist, which means she jumps off of a wall from a decent height onto a trampoline, doing acrobat stunts all throughout the up and down. It was so fun to see our friend fulfilling her lifelong dream to be a professional acrobat. She’s one of the few people I know who had an ambition at a young age to do a thing, and then set out in life to go on ahead and do it. She performs to hundreds of people three times a day. It was a fun show–not only were there the acrobats, but there was singing, dancing, drumming, and BMX. 

In between her shows (we saw it twice, of course), the other friends took a ride on the Tower of Terror. I passed on that one. After the last show, Maria joined us, done with her day of work. We switched parks. The other park is just like Disneyland in California, complete with Smalltown USA and Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Over in that park we rode Indiana Jones, Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, a carousel, and ultimately “Hyperspace Mountain” (which was my favorite one of the night). It was a whirlwind of a day, and thoroughly exhausting. It was incredibly stimulating, but a lot of fun! I ended up going on all of the rides but the Tower of Terror, which I’m grateful for.

The following day we made the trek to Montmartre, a neighborhood in Paris famous for its indelible fingerprint in art history. It also happened to be the setting for two of my favorite movies growing up: Moulin Rouge and Amelie. As kids we were all obsessed with Moulin Rouge and knew the “Elephant Love Medley” by heart. Another childhood friend, Adrienne, joined us for that day. She was in Paris working on a film project. It was fascinating listening to her life working on these lovely indie films as a screenwriter, as well as getting updates on her music and standup comedy successes. 

The six of us found several points of interest in Montmartre. The modern day Moulin Rouge did not have the same splendor as the one in Baz Lehrman’s early 20th century Montmartre. I believe the original one burned down in a fire a while ago, and so the one now is only a replica–and boy did it feel like it. When we first saw it we thought it was just a themed gift shop for the real thing. Never meet your heroes.

Some more compelling points of interest were “The Love Wall”, where “I love you” was written in (I believe) every language. We hiked our way to the top of the hill to visit the Basilica of the Sacred Heart (Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre), which was indeed spectacular. There is a very memorable scene in Amelie that happens around the Basilica, and it was fun for me to visit the setting of that beloved scene that I had watched many times growing up. 

We then made our way via metro down to the river, where we had some drinks and played some petanque, a game that is quite similar to bocce ball. Adrienne left us after a few games of petanque, and we found our way to a cozy little restaurant with an excellent menu for dinner. 

On our ride back to Lagny, we were on the most packed train any of us had every experienced. JJ and I were able to stay together, but we got separated from other friends in the squished fervor. The train was, no exaggeration, wall to wall, door to door, crammed with people. There was no room to move limbs. I couldn’t get my phone out of my pocket to look at it. All we could do was stand crushed up against strangers for quite a while, before enough people leaked out of it to give some space.

For our last day in Paris, our only real plan was to visit the Catacombs, something that Coral very much wanted to do. It was a fascinating experience, and an interesting context in which to learn about Parisian history and, honestly, infrastructure. The Catacombs were massive, and it turns out that a lot of Paris is sitting on just straight-up chasms. There’s a whole department in Paris that takes care of just the immense amount of chasms under the city (the result of early mining), to make sure they’re structurally sound and won’t collapse. They’re also deep under the city–well below the metro.

As you might imagine, being in the Catacombs was incredibly eerie. It was sobering to be surrounded by the bones of thousands of people. The walls were made up of skulls and femurs. The rest of the bones were tucked back behind. Again, there’s an extensive interesting history around why the Catacombs exist that I won’t go into here. I am glad we went, it was certainly a unique way to tour Paris.

After we arose from the Catacombs, we found a yummy crepe street vendor. We ordered some Crepes and enjoyed them in a nearby park, underneath a large statue of a naked woman. We initially had wanted to go do another river cruise after this (and from this cruise glimpse the Eiffel Tower), but it was again ruled that we were too tired. Instead, we made our way back to Lagny.

That morning, before we had left for Paris proper (Lagny is about an hour outside of Paris by train), we had gone shopping in the little town square. We visited the farmers market for fresh cheese and veggies, and we also picked up some unreal bread and pastries from the patisserie. For our last meal together we convened at Maria’s place and enjoyed a home cooked meal together (prepared by Maria’s partner, Zach).

The next day we separated ways–Coral and Hannah woke up early to make their way to the airport. I woke up less early to make my way to the train station. JJ stayed behind one more day before continuing on her galavanting around Europe. I navigated my way to the train station so I could catch my ICE (intercontinental express) back to Germany. It was a lovely trip for me–very comfortable and easy (until the end, when I missed my train to Greifswald in Berlin. I was able to navigate close enough to Greifswald via train for Michael to be able to pick me up before all the train services to Greifswald ended for the night).

It was a special trip, and one that I feel strengthened our friendship and our bond. It was truly a dream come true, and I am so grateful for the experience. May it be that all people get to travel for 12 days with their friends, enjoying life, building memories, and strengthening love.

Reading now: Stamped from the Beginning by Ibram X. Kendi , The Well of Ascension by my boi Brandon Sanderson, and We Are Three by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Listening now:  I’ve found a great Celtic Music playlist on Spotify that I’ve been listening to a lot while I write.

We moved to Germany two-and-a-half months ago. Sometimes we still can’t believe it. We actually live here. We are immigrants. 

There were a few places that I had never been before being with Michael that, since we coupled up, have either become like-home or literally home to me. I had never been to the midwest; I then moved to Madison, WI. I had never really spent time in the south; I now have a plethora of southern in-laws and frequently travel to Jacksonville, FL. I had never been to Europe; now I am living in northern Germany. 

This blog post will be a more typical “this is what’s happening in our life” post, telling of our journey here and what life was like in our first month. In many ways, Germany does not feel so dissimilar from America. It is a wealthy, industrialized, Western nation. It is also, definitely (of course,) discernibly its own thing.

We left our beloved apartment in Madison at the end of April. We had been working steadily for months to clear it out. We tried to get rid of most everything. All of our furniture for the apartment was initially bought second-hand from Facebook Marketplace, and back to Marketplace it went. I had fallen in love with my local “Buy Nothing” group on Facebook–anything that I felt like could get more use–but I couldn’t in good conscience sell–was posted there. Through the “Buy Nothing” group I was able to find homes for half quarts of furniture paint, broken appliances, old art supplies, and old shoes. For old clothes we mostly utilized the “Take Back Bag”, a service that sustainably reuses or resells old clothes so they don’t end up in the landfill (a service that, unfortunately, Goodwill does not consistently provide).

We had a lovely farewell party in our beloved nearby Hoyt Park where we were able to give away last minute things, like opened pantry and cleaning items (anything unopened was, of course, donated to food pantries). We enjoyed a sunny evening in the park with so many of our dear family members and friends, and were able to carry on the festivities back at the empty apartment once the sun went down. We were very fortunate to have Michael’s extended family nearby, and they offered to store everything that we couldn’t part with–our beloved records and books, board game collection, memorabilia, art, and Michael’s homemade bed frame.

Our last few weeks were a fervor of moving, selling, cleaning, and saying goodbye to a town we genuinely loved. We had pizza on the floor of our empty apartment from our favorite pizza place in Madison, Luigi’s–a fitting capstone to the apartment, as our first meal in that space was also pizza on the floor. When we finally left the apartment, we walked around to each room and thanked it for all it had given us. We were sobbing. We loved that apartment. It was our first apartment on our own as a couple–it was where we lived when we became engaged, and then married. It hosted many wonderful Halloween parties, dinners, and board game nights. It was Daisy Mae’s first real home. 

We spent our last night in Wisconsin at Michael’s aunt and uncle’s house before we made the drive the next day down to O’Hare. We were meeting Michael’s dad, Mark, at the airport. He was flying up from Florida so as to meet us and take our truck. It was nice having a quick dinner with him before we left. We were unfortunately, understandably, very stressed during the dinner; however, it was still nice to have one more chance to spend time with a loved one before our big journey. Mark dropped us off at the airport, and we had to, once again, say goodbye to a cherished part of our life–our beloved truck. 

We made sure to get a direct flight so that we were sure we were never separated from Daisy Mae during the long journey across continents. We had asked a few people we knew who had traveled to Europe with their dogs what they suggested, and across the board it was recommended we fly Lufthansa. Lufthansa airplanes have cargo compartments specifically for live animals that are both temperature and pressure controlled. We had bought Daisy Mae a huge travel crate a couple of months prior which she had become comfortable in. There was some stress around the crate, because she needed the largest one possible. Of course, the measurements for her crate were in inches–but Lufthansa is a European airline, and thus works in centimeters. Her crate was slightly larger than their max size allowance for crates, and after a morning that we had spent calling various customer service departments to see if it would work out, we were left with a definitive “it’s up to the people who check you in at the airport”.

Luckily, the people checking us in did not whip out a tape measure to verify her crate met their exact specifications. We were encouraged by how thoroughly and earnestly the check-in people took care of us and Daisy Mae (and our immense amount of luggage). They had asked for food and water for her, and wanted us to let them know when to feed and water her. We dropped her off, as comfortable as we could make her, before we headed into the airport for our flight.

Our flight to Munich was pleasant enough. When we landed we were eager to get through customs to reclaim Daisy, but were held up when they checked Michael’s passport. It turned out that, for some unknown reason, his visa was issued to begin on June 1st, instead of May 1st, when it was supposed to begin. No one had caught this before this point. My visa, which is contingent on his (he’s got essentially a “skilled laborer” visa and I have a spousal visa to be here with him) was good to go on May 1st. The customs agent informed us that I was all set to work in Germany, but Michael could not legally work here until June 1st (a problem because I did not have a job nor any plan to get one–and we were thus both reliant on Michael’s income). 

Our primary support and resource for our move to Germany was Michael’s former boss and academic advisor (his doktorvater, or “doctor father,” in German), Benedikt. Michael got on the phone with Ben right away who was able to delay Michael’s resignation at UW until he started making money from his new job at IPP. This was a huge relief. It gave us breathing room to figure out Michael’s visa situation (which, it turned out, was super easy to resolve once we were here).

We finally made our way through customs to find Daisy Mae sitting, unsupervised, in her crate. She was overall alright–but she was certainly anxious and uncomfortable. The food and water that we had provided for her to be given during the journey was clearly untouched (I’m still mad at myself that I didn’t, at some point during the flight, ask an attendant to check on her). She had peed all over her bed. She needed to be zip-tied into her crate during the flight, and as she was unsupervised, we had no one to ask to undo her zip ties and get her out. Michael ran around the airport until he found someone who could loan us scissors to get her out. Once she was out, she was clearly so happy to be with us. We gave her water and took her potty, and she quickly settled down once she was reunited with us. 

We needed to make our way to Benedikt’s house in the town of Grafing, just outside of Munich. This is where we were going to spend our first night in Germany and pick up the little Fiat Panda we had bought from him to use as our car over here (I told you, Ben was our godsend for this move). We knew that we would not be able to fit ourselves, our 100 pound dog, her ginormous crate, and our 6 pieces of stuffed luggage in a little Fiat Panda, so we also rented a car. It was clear right away that we would not be able to fit everything in the SUV I had rented either, and a very helpful person at the car rental agency really helped us out at the last minute, and upgraded us to a large van. 

We made our way to Grafing, and soon found a delightful little noodle stand outside of the town’s local brewery. Manning the stand was a very sweet Ukrainian refugee who was excited to talk to us (he had pretty good English, as do many Europeans). He had fled from Ukraine towards the beginning of the war with Russia, and was settled in Grafing with his family. He made us delicious noodles from scratch right from his little cart, and it was a very comforting welcome to Germany. 

We realized that I needed to return the rental car in Greifswald 24 only hours after we initially rented it in Munich, or be charged for an extra day. I had previously requested an extension, but that had perhaps been shifted when the rental got changed to the bigger vehicle. Munich is in very southern Germany and Greifswald is in very northern Germany (fortunately, they’re both also on the Eastern side). The drive on the Autobahn takes about 10-12 hours, depending on how many stops one takes. That meant I had to wake up at 3 am and head out on the Autobahn in the van with Daisy Mae. Michael needed to stay behind to handle the transfer of registration for the Panda, and so he joined us later in the day.

The rental car was very German. It had so many controls and alarms to ensure that you were always following the rules. It would chirp at me if I was drifting lanes, and it kept track of the speed limit and would beep incessantly at me if I went over it. Germans are very earnest about the speed limit. You do not go over the posted speed limit, unlike in America where most people treat it as a suggestion and regularly go 5-10 mph over. Speeds are tightly controlled everywhere, but the Autobahn is where people can let loose. In case you’re unaware, for most of the Autobahn (Germany’s interstate system), there is no speed limit. It is important to note that it is not always unlimited speed–sometimes it dropped into some sort of speed limit, especially if it was close to a town or city. For the most part, however, people would tear down the Autobahn fearlessly. 

Some curiosities about German driving: the traffic lights are not placed in front of the cars at intersections (as they are in America–or, most places I’ve been). So instead of simply looking ahead of you to see the status of the light, you need to crane your head to the side to look next to you at the intersection. The light turns yellow not only in the change from green to red, but also from red to green. We hypothesize this is because there are so many more manual cars here, and it gives the drivers time to switch into gear. There are also no free public bathrooms available along the Autobahn, or indeed, most places. This, I found, is common across the continent. You need to make sure you always have a euro on you so that you can go to the bathroom at gas stations, malls, or even sometimes restaurants. You can occasionally find a “pissoir”, which is essentially just a hole that you can pee into. They are often very dirty and improperly supplied with TP and soap. The only convenient dining you can find along the Autobahn are McDonald’s and Burger King–although both have many more vegan/vegetarian options than they do in America. I hadn’t had McDonald’s in over a decade, and McNuggets in probably 2 decades. However, I admit, I’ve been delighting in the opportunities to indulge in Beyond McNuggets here and there on road trips now. 

Daisy and I made the trip to Greifswald just fine. I needed to meet the manager of our temporary apartment with more cash, to pay our fees for keeping Daisy Mae there with us and parking the Panda. I had a stressful afternoon of trying (and failing) to get cash in Euros from ATMs around Greifswald; meeting the building manager to get the keys for our apartment; moving everything from the car into the new apartment on my own; and then returning the car rental. However, it all got done and I was immediately relieved. We had finally arrived at our new home.

We had needed to get a temporary apartment to start our life here through the website Wunderflats. We had tried to find more permanent housing from the US, but the Germans are very sensitive and skeptical to scams. I did not hear back from anyone about housing, and so we resorted to Wunderflats. It was expensive, but it at least got us here, and provided everything we had immediately needed to live in the unit, including bedding, towels, and cookware. Most people who move to Greifswald to start work at IPP can live in IPP’s guest house while they find more permanent housing; however, we did not have that option because they do not allow dogs.

There was an initial snafu with the Wunderflats apartment that was my doing, and luckily I was able to catch it before the move. When I was renting the apartment on the site, somehow I rented it for May and June of 2026 instead of 2025. I caught this when we were less than a month out from moving into the unit and the landlord had not yet asked us for the rent or deposit (something they aren’t usually wont to do). The landlord and I were able to figure out the scheduling mishap and he said that he did have an available unit that we could use that was “in the same building, but larger” (important note here–it was not in the same building) and thus would cost a little extra. We were, of course, rather desperate, and so agreed. I spent another stressful morning wiring him the money, hoping beyond hope it was all legitimate. He said he couldn’t alter the rental agreement because that was crafted by Wunderflats and our new deal was more of a handshake deal. He also said that we won’t need to know the address to the new apartment because it was the same as the unit I had initially rented (again, note–that was not actually the case). 

Arriving in our temporary housing, I was very relieved that it was not a scam. We got our keys no problem, and the housing managers that worked for the landlord were two very pleasant German women around our age. One of them was named Nell, but it was never clear which one that was, as they both would respond to texts that I’d send to “Nell”.

We knew that the apartment was a one-room apartment (a studio), but we hadn’t really realized how small it was. It was tiny–the size of a small hotel room. We had a nice bathroom, a very small kitchenette (with the requisite mini fridge and induction stove that are common across most German–and I believe European–kitchens). The whole unit was only about 60 square feet (and somehow supposedly larger than our initial unit?!). We had a couch we pulled out into a bed every night, and a TV, which was fun for a while, as TVs are not something we usually own. A lovely element of this first apartment was that it was ground floor (floor 0, in Germany) and so we could open up our doors and let Daisy out very easily. She grew to love lying in the grass right outside of the apartment, sniffing the air and basking in the sunshine, much to the delight of us and most passerby. 

As mentioned before, once we were here, it was actually quite easy for Michael to amend his visa. There is definitely a deference towards doctors (people with PhDs) here. It was suggested to us quite often that when we apply for housing we should make it clear that Michael is a doctor and that he is here to work for the Max Planck Institute for Plasma Physics (IPP for short). When he was sorting out his visa at the immigration office here in Greifswald and explained the situation to them, it was cleared up almost immediately (them even saying things along the lines of, “Oh, you’re a doctor? Well then this should be no problem to resolve this”).

We needed to take care of a lot of details suddenly and urgently once we got here. A pressing issue that complicated our life manifold was the fact that we were, as you may have surmised, not living in the address our landlord had told us we were living in–we were living one building over. This proved to be very unfortunate for us in many different ways. It took us a couple of days to really realize we were living one building over from the address we believed we lived at. The arrangements we tried to take care of early into our time ended up being hassles because almost nothing could be delivered to us.

Quickly, here are some curiosities about the German postal system: they do not use unit numbers (or states) in their mailing addresses. The delivery people get directed to the correct building via the posted address, but then rely on the names posted at that address to actually deliver the mail. The idea of including the unit of the apartment in your address (if there even is one) is met with derision and confusion, as if doing so would suggest that the postal workers are incapable of reading the names listed on the mailboxes. It also seems that DHL and the Deutsch Post are essentially one and the same. I don’t know the details around this, but it does seem that they’re interchangeable, except that only DHL handles packages. Speaking of packages, deliveries are a whole ordeal. They often insist on handing them to you in person. You can, on your DHL account, specify that you’d like them left in a certain spot or at one of the myriad “Paket Stations” around–but in my experience those requests are almost always denied for some reason.

Yet, the Germans love their physical mail. Almost anything that can be mailed instead of done digitally, is done so. Do you need a verification PIN to activate your insurance account? Great, that will be mailed to you. Do you need to pay for a service on our website? It couldn’t be easier, just print out this form and mail it in, and then we will eventually charge you and activate your service! Any forms you turn in for the many, many, registrations needed–it’d be best to be done either in person or via mail. I think this is tied to their nigh paranoia about scams. 

This reverence for physical mail became a hassle for a number of reasons. First, some of our necessities for living in Germany–like our insurance cards, German debit cards, and German SIM cards–we could only get via the mail. Unfortunately, we took care of signing up for these necessities in our first few days in Germany, and so these were all sent to the wrong address. We could not call anywhere to amend this because 1) We did not have a phone plan anymore (our American phone plan we let lapse thinking we would have our new German SIM cards promptly–luckily we eventually were pointed to some other temporary SIM cards we could use while we waited, because it took weeks to sort out); and 2) If we were able to borrow someone’s phone to call the respective agencies, the phone trees were all in German and thus non-navigable by us.

However, far and away the most stressful struggle we had around the postal system involved boxes of our stuff that we had shipped from America before we left. We had shipped five heavy boxes full of things that we knew we wanted here, but that we didn’t want to lug with us on the planes due to their general bulkiness–things like winter jackets, boots, shoes, books, etc. Each box was heavy and cost about $200 to ship–meaning, of course, it cost us about $1000 to ship all of these things. Of course, we sent them to the address we had on hand at the time, which was not correct.

The boxes took a while to get through customs, and in that time we had realized our error and were trying to figure out how we could make sure these heavy, expensive boxes got to us. We tried posting notices at the incorrect address to direct the delivery to us; we tried going through the DHL app to have the packages delivered to a “trusted neighbor” (me, at the building next door), but that was denied for some undisclosed reason; and we tried calling DHL, even asking a German colleague of Michael’s to help us navigate the phone tree, to only be told by the customer service rep that it would all work out just fine (as an aside–so far German customer service is so much worse than it is in America. It’s honestly unreal to us at times). 

DHL attempted to deliver 4 out of the 5 packages at the incorrect address, despite our efforts. They were deemed “undeliverable” and sent straight back to Wisconsin. No second attempt was made where we might intercept them, nor were they kept at any office where we might pick them up. They travelled across the world, were for a few minutes only 100 feet away from us, and then immediately sent back across the world.

Finally, the last package (it took longer than the rest to make it through customs) made it to us–the delivery person actually heeded the posted notes and I was able to intercept him. The contents of the four packages that went all the way back to Wisconsin (to Michael’s uncle) are making their way back to us through the help of friends. Our friend Dieter has been picking up the boxes from Michael’s uncle’s house, then delivers them to Benedikt, who brings them to us as excess luggage on one of his many flights between Madison and Germany. We are very grateful to all who are helping us with this disaster, and try not to think about the staggering carbon footprint all of these things now have.

Eventually, we were able to sort out most things. We got our insurance and SIM cards. We successfully registered as Greifswald residents (something everyone is required to do–even Daisy Mae–and must be done in person. You actually need to register every time you move, even within Greifswald). We’re fumbling our way through most interactions with people who don’t speak English with our poor (yet growing) German vocabulary. Fortunately, most Germans–especially our age or younger–speak English very well (when you ask them, “Sprechen sie Englisch?” they almost always respond with, “Of course!”)

We’ve been able to enjoy walking through Greifswald’s charming old town and the Marktplatz. We’ve been trying cafes, Bäckereien (bakeries), and restaurants. As noted in previous posts, we love hanging out at the Hafen (harbor) on sunny evenings (the sun doesn’t set till around 10 pm). We have explored the nearby beach communities of Wieck and Lubmin. I’m slowly learning how to drive a manual transmission so I can use our Panda. Michael is learning how to sail and is training for a marathon. He is loving his work at IPP and I’m loving spending my days creating as I wish.

A week after we moved, I actually had my own whirlwind adventure around Europe with a group of my oldest and best friends. I think that I will save that for its own post, along with our life in our second month. 

We have so far felt grateful as often as we have been frustrated (or, probably, more so). We’ve definitely both been homesick for Madison, but recognize our lives are nice here. Greifswald is a very pleasant place to live. 

Reading now: A Little History of the World by E.H. Gombrich , The Well of Ascension by my boi Brandon Sanderson, and We Are Three by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Listening now:  My Greifswald Summer playlist. It’s pretty good, I think.

Am I proud to be an American?

With American Independence Day passing last week, this has been a topic on my mind. After some thought, this is the conclusion I have come to: 

I am proud to be from America. I am not proud of America.

As a child, I was proud of both. As with most children, my understanding of the world was simple, and shaped through my parents. I knew I was meant to love my country. I was taught we were the nation of the free, where any person could be who they wanted to be. I was taught that we were, as a nation, courageous, righteous, strong, and prosperous. America offered the staggering potential of the “American Dream”. We were a people who fought off tyrants to establish a land where anyone had that potential. We did so in our own revolution, and then again as an important member of the allied states in WWII.

Growing up, I enjoyed the Fourth of July and its hot dogs and rock music and fireworks. I was never particularly taken by the patriotic-American aesthetic, but I did enjoy the festivity and the sense of community that patriotism invokes. Humans, as an animal, enjoy being a part of something. People enjoy being proud of who they are–and what I was, was, undeniably, American.

As it should go, as I got older I became more educated. A good education not only informs but wisens. A good teacher, good school, and good curriculum provides facts for its students, and then teaches them how to think about those facts. It encourages questions– not only on what, where, when, and who–but also why and how?

I was privileged enough to receive an education like this. I went to a school that had social justice, community, responsibility, and lifelong learning as cornerstone tenets. I attended a small, public, charter school from Kindergarten through 8th grade called the Carbondale Community School (CCS). I love my school, and am so grateful for the opportunities of growth I had there–-such as a rich emphasis on the arts and outdoorsmanship, socratic learning, and fostering community. I had heard the word “community” so much while growing up that I more or less began drowning it out as I got older. However, the impact of being immersed in a learning environment that focuses so heavily on instilling in its students a community-forward, empathetic curiosity and lean in life left an indelible imprint on myself and those I grew up with in that school (many of whom are still my close friends).

We were offered curriculum on American aberrations, such as the slave trade and the Native American holocaust. We were often offered emotionally tricky curriculum–I remember reading accounts of the brutality of slavery in school and it being the first real introduction for me in how horrible human beings can be to one another. The capacity for humans to do evil to one another is a fact of life, and I firmly stand behind the idea that children–once they’re developmentally stable enough for it–should be exposed to difficult topics in a stable and safe environment. This not only encourages empathy and compassion, but instills in them a sense of righteousness and social justice as a response to the horrors of the world. As much as I had exposure to such realities through my schooling, there was a lot of the world that I was sheltered from that, as an adult, I wish I had been more exposed to as a child.

I had, in many ways, an absolutely idyllic childhood. I grew up in a small town in the mountains of Colorado. It was beautiful. I always remember the Carbondale of my childhood mainly consisting of four populations: old, white, hippies; true ranchers and cowboys (who would wrangle their cattle up and down the mountainsides, causing traffic jams when they would drive their cattle along the few highways in the area); middle-class white families in which the parents primarily worked either as an artisan or for a non-profit; and a tight-knit Latino community largely consisting of first-generation immigrants from Central America. Each had their own culture, and each culture wove together to create a vibrant little community, full of art, music, environmental consciousness, incense, local grass-fed beef, rodeos, excellent homemade tortillas, authentic Mexican restaurants, and, of course, an appreciation by all for the natural beauty that surrounded us.

My high school was in many ways very similar to my grade school. It offered a deeper, more mature curriculum that still emphasized an importance on the arts, outdoorsmanship, responsibility, lifelong learning, and socratic intrigue. This was a private school, and one I was more than privileged to attend with the help of academic scholarships and parental loans. It was suggested by my teachers at CCS that I attend CRMS (the Colorado Rocky Mountain School) instead of the local public high school, because they felt that I would thrive there. I was always an incredibly earnest student, and I was again fortunate enough to have many adults in my life that fostered and encouraged that in me, no matter the cost (literally).

At CRMS I took courses on World Geography taught by a teacher that was more interested in engaging us about world politics and philosophy than he was maps. I was sponsored to attend a socratic seminar at the Aspen Ideas Institute, where we delved into philosophical thought. I took courses on memoirs, glass blowing, graphic novels, world history, photography, calculus, geology, rock climbing, ceramics, and  Eastern Philosophy (a course that absolutely determined the course of my life). I was rewarded by my teachers again and again for thinking critically, my earnest studiousness, and my desire to learn not only the what, but the why. We took weeklong trips into the deep wilderness of the desert and mountains twice a year, where several times we needed to engage in actual wilderness survival due to unexpected, dangerous natural phenomena (such as lightning storms atop mountains or not finding water for days in the desert). 

Am I proud to be a Carbondalian, raised by hippies and artisans and ranchers? Absolutely. Am I proud to be an alum of the Carbondale Community School, where I was taught to constantly strive for better for myself and the world? Undeniably. Am I proud to be an Oyster (the actual, literal, mascot of CRMS is the Rocky Mountain Oysters, this is not a joke), where I gained skills in research, survival, and artisanship? No doubt. Am I proud to be a Coloradan, and thus skilled in skiing and climbing? Of course.

Am I also aware that all of the opportunities and privileges offered to me in my life are largely due to my childhood home being in America? That the freedom of thought expressed and encouraged by my educators growing up was guaranteed to all of us by the freedom of speech? That as a young girl I was encouraged to do many things–go to school, play sports, engage in dangerous outdoor activities–that in many places in the world is just simply not available to most young girls? Yes.

Did the wonders of my upbringing also happen against the backdrop of The War on Terrorism, a recession triggered by a few greedy people, school shootings, the increasing pressure of climate change (again fostered by a few greedy people), and systemic racism, Islamophobia, xenophobia, homophobia, and misogyny? Yes.

As progressive as my schools were, I realized (and keep realizing) as I got older, there were some major gaps in my education. A lot of this was due, largely, to my environment. It is hard to teach about the extant systems that ensure the second-class citizenship of many marginal communities in America when you do not exist among them. I could see the horror of Islamophobia and the domestic terrorists that would shoot up Mosques and Sikh temples (in their ignorance not even realizing the difference) in the news–but I do not think I knew any Muslim people. I could study the horrors of the hundreds of years of history of slavery in America and be rightly appalled, but I had never been to the South and did not feel how that history still lives there. I was, for the most part, even unaware of the police killing of black youths such as Tamir Rice–but even if I had, I don’t know how much I really would have understood the full-scale implications of such murders, as I didn’t really know that many black people. I knew that we shouldn’t have been at war in Iraq because that was what the adults around me would say–but couldn’t really comprehend the reality of the sheer amount of destruction and death wrought by the US in that land and against those people–and the history that led to the US being its own harbinger of war in that region. 

Most of my revelations about the cruel, dark, history of the US I came to as an adult. 

In college I learned why Teddy Roosevelt built the Panama Canal–it was not just a gift for the people of the Central American nation (as it had previously, to me, been alluded to be), but a piece in his campaign to establish an American empire. The fact that there was a large American Empire was something I had never even realized. To then further realize that there still is an American Empire is yet another matter. I grew up knowing that America was proudly founded as an antithesis to the inhumanity of colonial rule. It is then wild to realize the twisted reality that the American “territories”, such as Puerto Rico, Guam, and the American Samoa (to name a few) are themselves essentially colonies of an American Empire, all being “American” without representation (you know, the very notion that got our founding fathers so pissed they caused a revolution over it). 

It wasn’t until college that I had learned that the Philippines had, at one point, “belonged” to America, at the cost of 100,000s of lives. The massacre in the Philippines when we “won” it from the Spanish was all so that, of course, it was easier for the US to colonize and usurp Hawaii from the native people there, who largely did not have interest in being Americans (many still don’t–I can tell you from my short time living there, there is still an active resistance). 

It is wild to realize how many elements of America, even with my education that encouraged deeper thought and analysis, I took for granted, and never looked at twice. It’s disconcerting to realize that just as you learn how propaganda was–and is–used by nations throughout history, it had been used on me, and everyone I know, to accept the excellence of America. We were taught that America is excellent because of Capitalism–that it is the best economic system, and any other economic system is actually, maybe, evil? 

Of course, we were never supposed to pay heed to all of the attempts at socialism that happened in South America that were directly undone by CIA intervention–that the US systematically, again and again, removed popular, elected leaders and replaced them with US-backed despotic tyrants that promised to appease American interests. Americans are not supposed to look at why the Middle East is constantly in turmoil. That, of course, also has nothing to do with American espionage and government agencies very consciously supporting violent regimes or insurgent groups that promised to appeal to American interests. We were to only feel that we are the saviors of these poor brown people who cannot fend for themselves, that they needed a white man to step in to give them freedom (as we hold a gun to their backs, stymying any attempt at grassroots, independent efforts at democracy or autonomy). We could look at how poorly Sharia Law dictators in power in Islamic countries treat their minorities (don’t worry about how they came into power)–just don’t look at how America treats its own minorities. 

It was wild to wake up to the reality that, subliminally, I had been taught that to be white in America is the norm, and anything else is recognized as “other” (how many people do you know who truly identify as “European American”, in the way that people do “African American” or “Asian American”–or even “Native American”? It’s telling how bizarre that is to even consider). To be straight is normal, to be middle-class is normal, to be Christian is normal. Anything else is, of course, allowed in the land of the “free”, but it must be identified as other, and the extent to which it is allowed needs to be constantly questioned.

It became more and more evident that America was not, in fact, a land where everyone was free, as I had believed in my youth. There are ways in which we are close to that ideal state of freedom, but then have freedoms either threatened or taken away. Women in many states now do not have control over their own bodies. Trans people in most places do not have control over their own bodies. There are a walloping 2 million people incarcerated in America (580 out of every 100,000 Americans are incarcerated, more than any other developed nation). Although gay and lesbian couples are allowed to marry now, they weren’t for most of my childhood. Today, people are being kidnapped by masked men and thrown into unmarked vans simply for being Latino in America.

I had touched on my awakening to my white privilege in a previous post, and won’t dive into it too deeply again here. I will only readdress the realization I had then, that in the hiphop and rap music I would listen to, the artists would be literally shouting about the condition of minorities in America and their continuous struggle to exist under systemic oppression–and I would not absorb it at all. Or, even, for that matter, how I would listen to Green Day’s “American Idiot” album on repeat and then think nothing of the messaging behind the lyrics (the emotion of emo punk was what was primarily engaging to thirteen-year-old me).

I think I had thought that we fixed it? You know, we fixed racism in America. Martin Luther King Jr. came along and made it all better (again, don’t think about how he died, or who killed him, or why). Yesterday I finished The New Jim Crow–a little late to the party, I know, but later is better than never–and man, I just wish that every American were to read it as a matter of understanding American history. Reading it just deepens my sadness and frustration that there is a loud group of people shaping education and politics in America now that don’t want black history or stories told–or really any American history taught that challenges the eminence of white Christian America and its supposed “excellence”. Again, as someone who had been actively taught critical thinking skills and had been, to some extent, exposed to challenging American history, I still was frighteningly ignorant. To have any and all of that actually stripped from the curriculum of most young people in America–it is daunting to think about what that will do to their minds. 

It is a little difficult to touch on contemporary American politics and the history that is currently being made. As everyone knows, it’s a lot. It’s so disappointing, frustrating, and overwhelming. To say that I am most certainly, unequivocally, not proud of the American government right now is an understatement. It is an embarrassment, globally. I think any MAGA-folk would be hard-pressed to find people elsewhere in the world who think America is that great right now. So far, in our travels around Europe, we have only met one man who thought that Trump was the better outcome in the election than Harris (he was a very sweet Italian waiter who told us that “All Italians love Trump because he will end the war in Ukraine”…I wonder how they feel about that now). 

A few nights ago we were hanging out at the idyllic Hafen here in Greifswald. The Hafen (hafen is German for “harbor”) is one of the staples of life here. It rests on the River Ryck, which connects the town to the Baltic Sea a few miles away. The Hafen consists of charming food boats (like a food truck, but you know, floating on the water) and shacks where they sell beer and cocktails. You sit where you please and enjoy your snacks and beer, looking out over the boats, the river, and the little city with its two cathedrals that dominate the skyline. The group we were with was comprised of Michael’s work colleagues, and I was struck by how everyone was a different nationality within the group (excepting Michael and me from each other, of course). There was a person each from Ireland, Portugal, Germany, the Netherlands, and Thailand. That night we ended up slipping into conversation about American politics (it is entirely possible I brought it up, because I spend a great amount of time thinking about it).  It seems that American politics is a topic that not only everyone here is interested in, but also that they are well informed on. 

I think that, in general, Europeans are much better than Americans at being aware of the news in other parts of the world…but also there is no denying that our reality TV star of a President knows how to create an all-absorbing drama. The question we got asked that night at the Hafen is the one most commonly asked to us by Europeans who want to talk to us about American politics: “Why is America so crazy right now?” The Europeans often express that to them, from the outside, the chaos in America seems insane. Clearly, there are also a lot of European countries themselves flirting with fascism again. The UK has made it illegal to be Pro-Palestine in any way. Italy has a far-right Prime Minister. Germany has the AFD party, itself basically an ugly resurgence of Nazism that had been worming around hidden for years. But nowhere is as INSANE as the US right now. 

People here will ask about the national guard confrontations in California and about ICE; they ask about the deportations and the construction of the concentration camp in Florida; they ask about the billionaires and how instead of their being opposition to their gross accumulation of wealth at the cost of the rest of the country, there is actually government support for this atrocity. Nowhere in their questions is there any hint that they think Trump is doing anything but the opposite of “making America great again”. He’s an international fascination, for sure. But I think most people feel concern for us, and not awe or envy. I have had a couple of Europeans express that they do not even wish to travel to the US right now–it’s too scary a concept for them. These were white, educated, men. I can only imagine the discomfort of anyone with any sort of identity labeled as a “minority” feeling. 

Germany is a socialist country. To many Americans, “socialism” is a dirty, scary word. They’ve been taught that it necessarily means fascism. There have been times, in history, absolutely, when fascism was wrought on a nation under the guise of “socialism” (Nazi Germany being a notable example). However, it seems to me that an economic system is largely like a religion–you can practice it in healthy ways as long as you don’t become a dogmatic fundamentalist about it. Anything taken to the extreme becomes unhealthy, toxic, and scary. I would say that in America today there is a dogmatic fundamentalism around capitalism that has been leaning towards fascism for decades (since Reagan, most acutely), and is only becoming more so under MAGA America.

Living in socialist Germany is rather pleasant. There is, absolutely, less of an emphasis on individual gain. It just seems that most people are genuinely disinterested in accumulating wealth. There is a lot more contentment with having simply enough. Once can still participate in capitalism, of course–I think you’d be hard-pressed in the world to find anywhere that doesn’t engage in some level of capitalism, especially if it is a developed nation. There are shopping centers, supermarkets, ads on YouTube videos, billboards, McDonalds, and Amazon. There just is less of an emphasis on all of it. There is less pressure to spend money–and the money you do have, goes farther (at least out here–I do think German cities are more expensive). 

The Germans have a disdain for credit. They have their own credit system here that is, as far as I can tell, actually based on how little debt you’ve had. They don’t have interest in debt you’ve taken on and then paid off. They’d rather you didn’t try to live above your means. Why would you? Hospital visits are free. Public transit is easy (as is walking and biking). Groceries are more affordable. Childcare is free. Higher education is basically free. Everyone is supported well by the taxes they all pay into (what an idea).

I think there is a legitimate reason to be afraid of the idea of socialism in America. It is less likely to work there than here. This is evident already–just look at how the taxes that Americans pay now don’t go too far to actually improve their lives. America has crumbling roads, dilapidated schools with underpaid teachers, many people suffering from treatable illnesses without healthcare, homeless families, etc. In order for socialism to work in America, there would need to be a drastic reduction in the dogmatic fundamentalism of individualism.

Americans are raised to prioritize themselves and their families over everything else. This is the backbone of the American Dream–you can be and do anything, it’s just up to you–and, if you do make it, you better make sure no one else comes to take what’s yours. This is why so much of American taxes go towards enabling the wealthy and funding wars instead of caring for its people. Wars not only line the pockets of weapons manufacturors, but also protect selfish American interests. The wealthy do not want to share what they have so they pay off politicians so that they don’t pay any taxes. Meanwhile, investing in schools, childcare, elderly care, veteran care, healthcare–that all would mean caring for people that are not you or your own. It doesn’t support the idea of rugged individualism, to have everyone helping to take care of everyone.

When our German acquaintance the other night asked us that increasingly common question of “why is America so crazy right now?”, Michael and I were able to give a few answers. The emphasis on individualism is one of the reasons. Another clear reason is the blatant corruption in politics enabled by Citizens United–having corporations legally allowed to bribe politicians is insane, clearly unethical, and it is undoubtedly the main reason why politicians so often prioritize corporate interests (including those of the NRA, Lockheed Martin, Big Oil, Big Pharma, Monsanto, privatized prisons, etc, etc) over the interests of America’s people and environment. A third reason is the dichotomy between the news that those who are liberal have access to versus the news that those on the right have access to. It is not uncommon in recent difficult conversations with conservative loved ones that it becomes clear that they think we are misinformed due to our news outlets, and vice versa. It makes genuine dialog near impossible because we are working on the premise of opposing realities. As far as I know, none of these factors are eminent forces in Germany. 

America does offer something rich: potential. That is its siren’s call. The stories of people who started out with little, then cracked the code and made it big. This is what not only calls immigrants to America, but keeps American citizens complicit within this system that clearly does not serve them. The promise of potential is what is inspiring about the story of America’s founding, and is what continues to inspire, genuinely, Americans today. I do think, though, that what we as a people are aiming for with our hopes and aspirations needs to shift. If, as a society, we aspired towards the pursuit of happiness for all, versus me, we would actually go farther as a nation and a people. It is not a sustainable dream for everyone to become billionaires. That is in and of itself a faulty aspiration, and an amoral one. It is wishing to become the dragon, and not the knight. 

There is a lot that I love about America. I love that it is a messy tapestry of cultures formed from the peoples from all over the world that sought it for its promise of potential. I love the astounding natural beauty–the mountains, oceans, prairies, deserts, forests, swamps. I love the heart of the people evident in the myriad protests springing up, and in the way that many people are opting to care for their immigrant neighbors over their own safety. I love the land that forged the people I love most in the world–my family, my friends, myself. 

I love that it has this insane, innate, potential for greatness, if we can wrest it back from the draconic hands of the current oligarchy running it into the ground from all three branches of government. If we actually, truly (perhaps for the first time in history), choose to fully run our government under the premise of equality and liberty for all, then there truly would be a greatness to America. I ardently hope that we can earnestly become a land of the free, where no one lives feeling less than because they are not white, Christian, straight, cisgendered, and wealthy. Where everyone is supported to live just enough so that they and their communities may flourish. Where there is a genuine interest in repairing harm to those who have been historically disenfranchised, simply because it is the right thing to do. Where the interest in the community that was so embedded into me in my youth is felt and practiced by all. Where everyone cares about a healthy environment, deep and nourishing (even if difficult) education for all, healthy food and access to medicine for all, a place where people are truly free to love and be who they want, and a life where we actually treat others how we wish to be treated.

If Americans were to live for the benefit of all beings, so that all may be happy and live in safety, then there would be every reason to be proud. Until then, I will remain critical and active against the current regime. Not because I am not proud to be American, but because I want to be.

Reading now: A Little History of the World by E.H. Gombrich and The Well of Ascension by my boi Brandon Sanderson

Listening now:  Jesse Welles. He writes captivating folk music that perfectly captures current issues, like a contemporary Bob Dylan.