Hiking in the Highlands - Tufts University

The United Kingdom & Ireland
Tufts Traveler
Spring 2010
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table of contents letter from the editor
21 essential UK experiences
queue up and mind the gap
oxy love
10 reasons to see a west end show
being irish in boston
funeral crashers
WWOOFing ireland
the isle of shadows
hiking in the highlands
glengoyne distillery
history of the eurostar
patagonia is beautiful
city life and island time
[focus] erin kestenbaum
experiencing chile’s earthquake
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8
10
12
13
14
16
18
20
22
23
24
26
28
31
laina rosebrock
renee leck
brianna beehler
jenna liang
rachael brill
erin gallagher
stephanie colbert
denali hussin
laina rosebrock
michelle beehler
rebecca grunberg
jenna liang
ariel rosen
interview by traveler staff
abi benudis
editor-in-chief • ally gimbel • managing editors • anna simon • laina rosebrock • staff
editors • becca weinstein• denali hussin • eva parish • jenna liang • rachael brill •
rebecca grunberg • nancy wang • layout editors • ally gimbel • anna simon • eva
parish • denali hussin • contributing writers • renee leck • brianna beehler • jenna
liang • denali hussin • rebecca grunberg • laina rosebrock • michelle beehler • erin
gallagher • stephanie colbert • rachael brill • ariel rosen • abi benudis • contributing
photographers • ariel rosen• brianna beehler • erin kestenbaum• eva parish
• jessica chow • jenna liang • laina rosebrock • michelle beehler • nancy wang •
photo by eva parish; cover photo by nancy wang
Here at the Traveler, we try to focus our magazine on countries or regions that many Tufts
students have the chance to visit. We’ve been to places like sub-Saharan Africa, China,
France and Israel, where Tufts offers study abroad programs or regular trips. We’ve traveled
to more unconventional locations like the Caribbean and India, where we aim to highlight
students’ out-of-the-ordinary experiences. Yet for as long as I can remember—and that’s
only four years mind you—we’ve never highlighted the United Kingdom and Ireland. This is
surprising to me, considering how many Tufts students go there during a semester or year
abroad. When the editorial staff sat around last December trying to decide where to focus
this issue, it was a unanimous vote: we just had to hear about your experiences in jolly ol’
England, Ireland and Scotland. And man did you guys deliver! We have some fantastic travelogues
smattered throughout this issue including a funny account of a rainy day in Oxford,
recollections of verdant hills and exhausting hikes through the Scottish Highlands, and more
recommendations for visiting the Guinness factory than you can shake a stick at. We most
definitely approve! We hope you enjoy reading these tales of wanderlust as much as we did.
Thanks for sharing your stories!
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Cheerio!
- Ally

21 Essential UK Experiences...
...from the perspective of a Jumbo
photos by laina rosebrock, eva parish, and jessica chow
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Planning a trip to the UK
and/or Ireland in the near
future? Before you hop the
pond, take a look at our city
guide to the three major cities:
London, Edinburgh and
Dublin. These are some
places you don’t want to
miss!
by laina rosebrock
1. Eat at Hummus
Bros in Soho—it will be the
best hummus you will ever
taste.
2.
Take a tour of Westminster
Abbey and admire the
beautiful architecture.
3. Take a stroll in St.
James’ Park next to Buckingham
Palace and have a
picnic.
4.
Walk up and down Oxford
St. and go inside all the
posh shops.
5. Go to Trafalgar
Square and climb on the
lion statues.
7.
Walk around Soho
and eat at one of the
hippie vegetarian
restaurants.
LONDON
6. Visit any of
the free art museums.
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8. Walk through Princes
St. Gardens and read a book
on one of the benches.
9.
Hike up King Arthur’s Seat for
some breathtaking views of
the surrounding area.
10. Visit Holyrood Palace
or the Edinburgh Castle.
EDINBURGH
11.
Walk up and down
the Royal Mile and
take a tour of all
the closes.
12. Have a
beer at the World’s
End Pub.
13.
Visit the Fudge Kitchen for
some of the best fudge in the
world.
14.Visit Adam Smith’s—
the founder of capitalism—
grave.
15. Visit the Jameson Whiskey Factory
and listen to them make fun of Jack Daniels.
18.
Buy a loaf of Irish soda bread at any of the
many bakeries.
19. Visit the Guinness Factory and go
to the top for the best views of the city.
16.
Go to Temple Bar—both the
pub and the surrounding
area.
20.
Take a day trip to
the beach town of
Bray—where Bono,
James Joyce, and
Oscar Wilde all lived
at some point.
DUBLIN
17. Take a tour of Trinity College and envy all
the students who attend it.
21. Visit the statue of
Oscar Wilde and take a
picture in front of it
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Queue Up and Mind the Gap
When I told people that I was spending my
junior year abroad in the U.K, many responded
with confusion. Typical responses included:
“why would you spend an entire year in a country
that is un-exotic?” “doesn’t it drizzle, shower,
mist, or somehow leak water from a gray sky
200 out of 365 days a year there,” and “isn’t U.K.
food terrible?”
While such comments left me with many
pre-departure jitters, once I reached London, I
promptly discovered that these stereotypes were
wholly unfounded. Well, two out of the three
anyway--as for the weather, it didn’t so much
rain as remain threateningly overcast from November
to March. But as for elements of the exotic
and delicious food, these I found in excess.
London abounds with people from exotic locales;
a girl from Prague, a girl of French/Irish
heritage, a boy from Tanzania, and a half-Brit,
half-Malaysian fellow numbered among my
closest friends. At first, I was teased for being
the brash, crazy American, but as the year went
on I was just teased for being brash, crazy, Renee.
Even the dyed-in-the-wool British girls
seemed exotic to me. The posh Londoners embraced
their fair skin and dressed in edgy combinations
of thrift store finds and boutique buys,
occasionally flaunting Lady Gaga-esque makeup.
One of their favorite pastimes was coaching
my British accent. I failed, miserably. Each time
by renee leck
I opened my mouth to parrot a phrase, they’d
keel over with laughter after I uttered roughly
one syllable. In my defense, I thought their heavily
valley-girl tinged American accents (honed
on hours of “Friends” and “The O.C” episodes)
were equally amusing.
London men came from all corners of the
globe as well. I briefly dated a Russian banker,
had a German physics student as a tennis partner,
argued with a Danish journalist, and was
propositioned by an Indian businessman. All of
them, save the businessman, were lovely people
with amazing stories to tell me and who challenged
and broadened my American perspectives.
London’s prolific markets constitute another
expression of the exotic. Borough Market tempts
passers-by with gourmet nuts and grilled chorizo
and red pepper sandwiches. Petticoat Lane
and Spitafields showcase clothes and antiques
while Portobello Road boasts a funky mix of everything
in-between. There is something decidedly
urban-chic about leisurely perusing a street
market, its wares laid bare and glittering--and
something utterly self-sufficient and satisfying
about buying only what you can hold in your
arms and then whisking it away across the city.
My favorite parts of London span a range of
styles. Some days, a perfect afternoon meant
wandering the cultural kaleidoscopes of Brick
Lane and Camden Town. The air in Brick Lane is
heavy with the rich shades of saris and the scent
of fragrant curries. And if you time your visit
right, you can venture to Café 1001, a rambling
warehouse space that, once a month, opens its
doors at midnight and doesn’t close them until
noon the next day. Snacks are available as long
as you can keep your eyes open to eat them, and
if you’re looking for a second wind, a room full
of couches accommodates power-naps. Camden
Town has a more hard-boiled feel, but its location
among winding locks, waterways, and bridges
gives it a quaint, country touch that contrasts its
toughness. For a more serene outing, I often escaped
to Regents Park, finding earthy comfort
in acres of tended gardens and sheer relief in
getting lost in so much Green after a day spent
surrounded by concrete and steel skylines.
Now, on to the food. Like all proper British
institutions, there exists a strict hierarchy among
their grocery stores. At the top reigns Waitrose,
followed by the decent respectability of Sainsbury’s,
and Tesco occupies the bottom tier. I usu-
photos by nancy wang
ally frequented Waitrose, my home away from
home and the incarnation of culinary heaven on
earth.
The best way to describe the happiness my
soul feels upon entering a Waitrose is to draw a
comparison to its American cousin, Wholefoods.
You know that blissed out, weak-kneed euphoria
that hits you when you gaze upon the gleaming
aisles of aesthetically arranged Wholefoods
products? That is Waitrose--it’s Wholefoods déjà
vu. On more than one occasion I would walk
into a Waitrose and wish I was on one of those
old-fashioned game shows, where contestants
have five minutes to race around a store piling
items into their cart and whatever they can lay
their hands on they can keep. In Waitrose that
would be bloody brilliant mate.
So pay no mind to the stereotypes; London is
exotically, appetizingly amazing. I cannot wait
to go back and ride through the city on a double-decker
night bus, laughing with friends and
sharing a bottle of hard cider.
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Don’t come to Oxford. I mean it. It’s a ghastly,
drizzly mess, and I don’t say this lightly. It’s absolutely
horrid. On any given day you may be
walking back from your evening tute thinking
lovely and (hopefully) deep academic thoughts
when rain will start coming down like no other.
Extremely unpleasant. At this point you will have
no other option than to seek shelter in the nearest
pub. Pull up a chair, order a cider (make that an
Old Rosie as I have it on good authority—myself
that is—that this order never fails to impress the
bartender), and make good conversation in your
Dickensian surroundings. Invariably, however,
just when you’re starting to get cozy it will stop
raining and you will head back out on your way
only to have it start again.
Bloody weather.
Oxy Love
by brianna beehler
Required vocabulary for reading this rather
biased account:
tute: short for “tutorial,” which is a meeting
with a tutor and an average of 0-3 other students.
bloody: British swearword. Americans
should not use this word as it makes
them look silly. Watch me do it anyway. biscuit:
cookies. Do not eat these if you are on a
diet as they are extremely addicting. Actually,
do it anyway. catch a crab: when a rowing
stroke goes bad. The oar blade slices into the
water at a bad angle and gets caught under
the surface. A bad crab can catapult you out
of the boat.
Take, for example, my Charles Dickens tute last week. I’m the only one in it, so I normally have
to take a bit of time beforehand to mentally prepare myself for the rather humbling experience of
having my highly intelligent—and frankly quite terrifying—tutor drill me on my essay as I read it
aloud to her (especially since my attempts to mimic Sam Weller’s Cockney accent in The Pickwick
Papers were brutally shot down in the second week). Only, that particular day I arrived to find
that my regular tute had been canceled and that I was to meet with her at 9:30 am the next day at
her house instead. So I got up the next day, after sleeping through my alarm, and it was raining
(shocker). Having inadvertently woken up much later than planned, I had to practically fly down
Cornmarket Street and up St. Giles, dodging troubadours and tourists alike with a dexterity that
would have made the White Rabbit proud. Despite all superhuman efforts, I was utterly soaked
by the time I arrived at my tutor’s cottage and rang the doorbell. Three seconds later, the nanny
opened the door, took one look at me and whisked me into the dining room for “a cup of tea.”
Two seconds after that, my tutor came racing down the stairs calling for biscuits and apologizing
to me profusely. Another second later, I was contentedly munching biscuits and sipping tea while
debating the relation to time in Barnaby Rudge. Not bad, considering my only class of the day was
one-on-one time with a world-renowned literary critic in her home over tea and biscuits. But let’s
not forget about that twenty minute walk through the rain to get there.
This whole rain business is really bothersome.
I mean, there’s really nothing better than waking up
at quarter-to-six in the morning to go rowing (of course
I row; everybody rows at Oxford. Not rowing would be
like only eating the insides of an Oreo, which I’ve never
really approved of because you don’t get the full experience)
and realizing that you are going to get wet, and I
don’t mean by capsizing your boat (although some novice
boats have accomplished such a feat). Rowing is really
exciting, especially as a novice when all sorts of exciting
disasters are going on: riggings snap, boats drift into the
“danger” zones and crash into the houseboats lining the
river, and inexperienced coxes panic and forget to steer.
While everyone’s still learning, there can be quite a breakdown
in communication between the coxes and rowers.
The Pembroke boys novice boat recently misinterpreted
the meaning of “Easy there!” as meaning “Nice job guys,
keep it up!” when it in fact means “STOP ROWING! We
are going to CRASH!” While their cox was working herself
into a frenzy yelling “Easy there! Easy there!” all the
guys were silently high-fiving themselves and thinking,
“Niiice, easy there, we’re really looking good!” Also, just
the other day I saw a girl catch a crab and actually eject
herself from the boat. These sorts of examples terrify me
on all the outings and every morning is a struggle to avoid
going down in Oxford legend as the novice who caused
the greatest crash build-up yet. It’s quite the reputationrisking
venture.
I mean, I guess it just wouldn’t be the same without all
the drizzle and tutes and rowing and whatnot. There’s
something quite special about all the bike riding and tea
drinking that goes on here that makes you feel like you
are in a magical place. In fact, I think it is a magical place.
You should really come to Oxford.
photos by brianna beehler and eva parish
10 11

10 Reasons to See a West End Show
1 London’s West End is one of the largest
professional theatre districts in
the world and is known for its impeccable
musicals. Not completely different from New
York’s Broadway, the West End is known to
host some of the largest and well put-on shows
in the world.
2 Just as visitors
flock to
Buckingham Palace
or Big Ben, musicals
are a must-see
for tourists in London.
The West End
holds great history
and gives character
to London in a
different way than
other tourist attractions
do. The first
West End theatre
was built in 1663 on
the historical Drury
Lane.
4 The many genres of musicals guarantee
that there will be at least one that
interests you. To name several popular shows:
Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables, The
Sound of Music, The Lion King, Rent, STOMP,
Blood Brothers, Singing in the Rain, Hairspray,
and Mary Poppins. Newer shows such as
STOMP or Rent offer alternatives to the classical
music of the typical West End musical.
5 The centuries of experience the West
End has allows it to offer spectacular
shows with terrific stage management. Popular
shows in the West End such as Phantom of
the Opera have been showing since 1950.
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3 While not everyone
has seen
a West End Show, we
recognize the melody
from musicals such as
Phantom of the Opera
or The Lion King. West
End musicals display
the producer’s musical
ingenuity and are pleasing
to both the naked
eye and even untrained
ear. Tunes of Andrew
Lloyd Webber are particularly
popular and
can be heard constantly
in the West End.
by jenna liang
6 Professional
actors and actresses
will catch your
attention and lead
you to the edge of
your seat as you brace
yourself for a unique
experience nowhere
else can offer.
8 The
7Not only are the
performers terrific
actors, they are also
talented musically. The
quality of singers chosen
to perform in the West
End shows is superb and
they will leave you longing
for more.
acoustics of the West End theatres hone
music to reach the human ear at its best.
9 Simply going to a West End theatre is an
experience in itself. Seeing musicals is
a much loved tradition in London and it is not
uncommon for the British to don cocktail attire
for a musical. In fact, several years ago, those indecently
clothed with flip-flops and jeans were
often refused entry.
10 You’ll come out of the theatre
skipping and singing to the
tunes. A trip to the West End is the cherry atop
the sundae that is a wonderful trip to London.
photo by eva parish
Being Irish
in Boston
by rachael brill
The vibrant immigrant cultures
that make up Boston have
enriched my experiences in
and around the city. I have indulged
in sweet Italian pastries
in the North End, peeked inside a Brazilian clothing boutique in downtown Medford, and enjoyed a
Mexican dinner in East Boston. Still, despite a sizeable Irish population in Boston, particularly in the
South End, my Irish-Boston resumé extended only to the occasional pub in Davis Square. I had the
fortune of working this summer with an Irish lad, who had come to the States for a brief three-month
visit. As I accompanied him on his adventures throughout the city, I learned a few important lessons
about being an Irish tourist in Boston.
First of all, Irish accents are apparently rather sexy. One night, our company had a fundraising
party, complete with a DJ, yummy hors d’ouevres, thrilling Segway demos, a cash bar, and most importantly,
a hot all-girl band. The young ladies from the band doubled as bartenders, and spent the
night warding off the advances of drunken businessmen. Yet Rob, my Irish friend, seemed to have
no problem wooing these otherwise uninterested females. As soon as he started to speak, his Irish
accent becoming thicker and more indistinguishable with each Guinness he downed, the women
were hanging onto his every word. That night he not only got the lead singer’s number, but had also
secured a first date. “Rob, how do you do it?” I asked him the next morning, and he quickly replied,
“I barely haf to do anythin’. It’s me Irish charm.”
The second discovery I made through observing Rob is that an Irishman will always find another
Irishman in Boston. Wherever we went, from the meandering paths of the Boston Commons, to the
bar near Beacon Hill, to the docks of the inner harbor, Rob’s ears always perked up at the sound of an
Irish brogue. He and his Irish brethren would immediately engage in lively conversation saturated
with Irish slang, such as “What’s the craic?” and I soon gave up on any attempts to decipher the
meaning of their foreign phrases. I remember one night in particular, when Rob changed into a fancy
suit before leaving work. I asked him where he was going in such fine attire. He answered, quite simply,
“Off to a gala on that Irish naval vessel in the shipyard.” When I asked him how he managed to
secure an invitation to such an event, which was sure to be filled with Irish and Bostonian dignitaries,
he again attributed his fortune to his Irish roots. “I met a few of ‘dem Irish naval officers, and when
they found out I am Irish too, ‘dey gave me an invitation to their event.” I only sighed and momentarily
cursed my American upbringing.
Finally, Rob upheld the stereotype that the Irish have exceptionally large families, and as the summer
wore on, I became convinced that everywhere we went, I was surrounded by his relatives. My
suspicions were confirmed after I joined him for a night at his neighborhood’s Irish pub. As he ordered
me a Magner’s, I turned to watch the Irish band playing in the next room. “See that woman on
the harp?” he asked, pointing to a petite woman in the corner. “That’s my Aunt Sue.” Only minutes
later, he pulled me towards another group of people to introduce me to his second cousin Billy, or his
third cousin once-removed on his mother’s side. By the end of the night, I believe I had met most of
his extended family.
While Rob left the United States at the end of the summer, he gave me a greater appreciation for
Irish culture in our great capital city. I highly recommend that Irish tourists visit Boston in their U.S.
travels, because not only will they enjoy the colorful atmosphere of the city’s Irish neighborhoods,
but as illustrated by Rob, they will always be surrounded by women, friends, and family.
photo by erin kestenbaum

14
Funeral Crashers
by erin gallagher
Studying abroad in Cork Ireland, I enjoyed an immersion in the Irish culture. Every meal
was served with two types of potatoes. The fellow university students ended every sentence
with the word ‘like’: “Want to meet at the Brog like?” – Brog being the popular pub in the city.
While learning the Irish language, I found that no word is pronounced the way it is written – for
example, bh is pronounced v. During the Christmas season, every single enclosed space (including
university buildings and bars) had a Christmas tree. The popular sports, Gaelic football and
hurling, were both comprised of familiar sports and uniquely Irish. It rained. My favorite quirky
Irish anecdote came during my weekend homestay in a small West-Cork town, Carrigaline.
When we were dropped off in a parking lot on Friday afternoon, my flatmate Amy and I were
told by the program organizer that Maureen (our host) was always late, but she was a lovely
woman and everyone really enjoyed staying with her. Though we were nervous to spend a
weekend with a genuine Irish family, we anxiously anticipated meeting our host. Unfortunately,
Maureen couldn’t make it to pick us up and thus began our atypical weekend.
Instead, Maureen’s friend picked us up and brought us to her house to wait for Maureen,
who was lost returning from her cousin’s wake in a more rural town further West. While waiting,
she constantly offered us tea and toast—slathered in butter, in typical Irish fashion. Though
Maureen’s cousin had died earlier in the week (as we found out when she picked us up an hour
and half later), instead of finding a replacement she decided to take us with her to the funeral
reception the next day.
Neither Amy nor I brought clothes that would have been suitable for an American funeral, but
Maureen assured us jeans would be perfectly suitable for this occasion. Only immediate family
dressed up for funerals in Ireland. The funeral took place in a graveyard, but Maureen informed
us we were too young to come in with her (though we were both twenty years old) and that we
should hang out in the town. Amy and I proceeded to wander around a town whose center is
smaller than our residential quad for two hours. Though we did not see many people, we could
tell that Americans were not common in the town.
Finally, Maureen called us to come to the hotel where the reception would be held. She had
already driven over. Amy and I, unfamiliar with the town, took a while to find the hotel, even
though it was small. We walked into a hotel dining room filled with 200 people to take part in
the funeral reception. As soon as we walked in, Maureen and her brother told us to get drinks for
ourselves and to get another one for them (they already had two each) because there was only an
open bar before the food was served – a meal complete with two kinds of potatoes. Everyone ate
and drank and talked and talked as I sat there and absorbed the scene. We were intermittently
introduced to extended family as Maureen’s American students. They told us about funeral
crashers, pointing out a woman sitting by herself, guessing she was one. They explained how
every occasion in Ireland revolves around food and drink.
What I learned from this experience is that the Irish love to talk, eat, drink, and share life with
everyone even in death. My previous interactions with the Irish had led me to appreciate their
overwhelming openness, kindness, and acceptance of everyone who crossed their paths. This
funeral reception, though slightly uncomfortable, was unique to my time abroad and I found it
to be more quintessentially Irish than Guinness.
photo by erin kestenbaum
15

y stephanie colbert
Humble Farm
Throughout our freshman year, my roommate and I always felt less worldly than our welltraveled
peers. We are both from sheltered East Coast suburbs, so we started researching cheap
ways to broaden our horizons.
We fell in love with the idea of becoming “WWOOFers” through the World Wide Organization
of Organic Farming, where farmers supply room and board in exchange for work during the week.
After deciding that an English speaking area would be our best bet (I speak French and she speaks
Spanish), we chose Ireland.
Two months later, we found ourselves on a plane to Dublin. True to stereotypes of the region, it
rained our first night, so much that I wondered where all the water was coming from. The Dubliners
did not seem to notice the torrential rain; Rebecca and I were the only ones wearing rainboots,
or “wellies” as the locals say.
Early the next morning we took a train to Castlebar in County Mayo. The trains in Ireland are
comfortable, with tables and a snack cart; the locals’ only complaint was that the trains only go to
and from Dublin. If you were in the west hoping to go south, you would need to first travel east to
Dublin, then southwest to your destination. Being less than 25 years old, we were unable to rent a
car and depended on the trains, buses, and taxis for transportation.
The train ride gave us a great sense for the countryside because most of what we passed was
farmland. Disembarking at Castlebar, we expected little more than a cluster of barns for a town,
but that was not the case. Castlebar was small enough to walk every major street in a half hour, but
along those streets were charming bookstores, cafés, pubs, and boutiques.
When our host, Fionnuala, picked us up, we struggled to understand her thick brogue and
feared that we would not understand a word she or her children said. Many of the adults in Castlebar
and the surrounding area had thick accents compared to those of the Dubliners, but thankfully
the children spoke clearly.
After a very fast drive down narrow country roads, we arrived at Fionnuala’s humble farm. Our
main duty on the farm was to weed amongst the strawberries, tomatoes, onions, garlic, potatoes
and aloe vera plants. Some days we mowed the lawn, painted the fence, cared for the piglets, or
did other odd jobs. Everything depended on the weather, which changed on an hourly basis. Even
when it was not raining, we would have to tailor our activities, for instance if the biting flies were
acting up.
As two people who love to plan, this lifestyle took some getting used to. Daily activities
could not be planned ahead of time because of the weather. Everyone was very laid back due to
this, which was refreshing once we learned how to relax.
After the work was done, we would walk until our feet hurt along the hilly roads. We would
pass by sheep, horses, and hundreds of cows. Each car that drove by gave us a friendly wave, and
each neighbor we encountered was excited to meet us. Being in the country’s heartland gave a sort
of authenticity to our travels. We were not only able to see its beauty, but we also got a taste for the
lifestyle.
Our meals with the family were always delicious; however, we never figured out when they
were supposed to occur. In the morning, the kids would have cereal and we would be given two
pieces of toast with honey. After breakfast we never knew when to expect food. Sometimes we
would not have a meal again until five o’clock in the evening; other days we would have dinner at
three thirty and supper at six. Dinner would usually consist of a hearty soup of leftovers from the
night before, while supper was usually potatoes with fresh vegetables and chicken or lamb. Fionnuala
would have tea in the afternoon while the kids were at school; Rebecca and I made teatime
into lunchtime by having many crackers or toast on the side.
We ventured off the farm to Castlebar via taxi on the weekends, and we once went to a
nearby town called Turlough. The National Museum of Country Life is in Turlough, and as luck
would have it, they were hosting a festival when we were there. This country life festival had
homegrown vegetables, pottery, jewelry, baked goods, and even basket weaving demonstrations. I
found it extremely meaningful to see both the history of farming inside the museum and to see the
varied work of the people of today.
When our time on the farm came to an end, we made our way to the quaint seaside town of
Westport. Along the water at the quay, I saw beautiful green, hilly islands with short but sharp cliffs
along the water’s edge. Westport was my favorite town both for its beauty and its environment.
The downtown area had two main streets, one of pubs and one of shops. Because everything was
so close together, it was easy to run into the same people, which made nightlife fun. We visited a
famous pub called Matt Molloy’s, owned by a member of the musical group The Chieftains. It is
a popular tourist destination because of the live music, and the crowd’s age averaged somewhere
around forty. Luckily, we were able to find some locals to point us in the direction of the younger
crowds, many of whom flocked to the nightclub when midnight hit.
After our night out on the town, we got up early to climb Croagh Patrick, the mountain
where Saint Patrick spent 40 nights and from where he drove poisonous snakes out of Ireland. We
had been able to admire its equilateral triangle outline from afar while on the farm, but the view
from the top was supposed to be exquisite. Upon our ascent we met both mountain goats and millions
of flies. From the summit, the view of over 300 islands made up for our 300 bug bites.
After Westport, we took a bus to Galway, which was especially busy due to the Volvo Ocean
Race, a worldwide sailing race. Because of this, there was free music along the harbor every night.
We even got to see performers from Riverdance.
Galway is an excellent city to make day trips from. It is only about 2 hours from the famous Cliffs
of Moher and the Burren. We took a bus tour to the cliffs, which were an incredible sight, hundreds
of feet tall. Taking a bus tour was much more fun than we expected because the driver stopped to
show us ruined castles and other attractions along the way.
We also made a day trip to the Aran Island of Inishmore, a very rural island where the people
speak Irish. Along with the many other tourists who rode the ferry with us, we rented bicycles to
tour the island. There are beautiful fields, stone walls, fallen castles, and beaches. We stopped for
lunch on some rocks along the coast then went for a swim. A few hundred feet away, we saw some
heads pop out of the water: seals!
As our trip neared its end, we went to Dublin. I felt like Dublin was very small compared to
American cities, which was nice because we were able to walk everywhere. We visited St. Patrick’s
cathedral, Christchurch Cathedral, Trinity College, the Book of Kells, St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin
Castle, and the National Museum. Dining and nightlife both centered around an area called Temple
Bar, which was always crowded with people and musicians in the streets.
It was the abundance of musicians in Ireland that really made it a unique experience. I absolutely
loved the traditional music. Even a small town like Westport would feature talented local
musicians in the pubs and a walk down any Irish street was accompanied by a live band.
photo by brianna beehler
16 17

The Isle of Shadows:Tramping About Skye
I went with my family to Scotland some summers ago. We made our way from Glasgow
to Edinburgh, and then to the highlands: our destination was the Isle of Skye, a lobstershaped
island off the eastern coast of Scotland. Its name means ‘Isle of Shadows’, but as we
crossed the bridge from the mainland onto the island, the sun appeared for one dazzling
moment.
After several hours of driving, we decided we were lost. We were supposed to be staying
in a cottage in a small village, but we hadn’t seen anything but fields, sheep, and moors
for several miles. Nothing, in other words, that would indicate a village. We crawled along
the single-track road, held up by the Scottish version of a traffic jam, two dozen sheep. At
last we were excited to see someone trudging along the side of the road. We rolled down
the window.
“Excuse me, but can you tell us where Balmeanach is?”
The man looked at us strangely.
“You’re in it.”
We stayed in a tiny cottage rented to us by our landlord, “Allie,” who would invite us
up to his place “for a wee dram or three.” Across the road was a field running up to a cliff
overlooking the grey sea, and a slate beach that was home to several ancient foundations—
old fisherman’s huts. We were woken each morning by the baa-ing of sheep. My little
brother, Aidan Skye (named for the Island), was determined to catch one and hug it, “just
to see what it was like.” When at last he did, to his and the sheep’s eternal surprise, he said
that it was far damper, smellier, and more generally unpleasant than he expected.
Most of Skye is rolling moors and impressive cliffs along the sea, dotted with sheep
and “highland coos,” the long-horned shaggy cows of Scotland. But Portree is Skye’s
main town, a lovely port with perhaps three restaurants and an ancient town square. The
night we arrived, there was a performance (it seemed to have been for our benefit) of the
bagpipe marching band. The music of the bagpipes, played by dozens of Scots from age
five to eighty, echoed off the cobblestones and reverberated through our dreams for days.
This was because the playing never stopped. The very next day was the Skye Highland
Games, which took place (to the ever-present sound of Pìobaireachd—“piping”) on
“the Tor” overlooking the port, with a view on three sides of the ocean. In a small
circle surrounded by the grass track for the runners, kilted competitors tossed
the “caber” (literally, a telephone pole), high jumped (without the benefit of
padding or the Fosbury flop), and slung cannonballs on chains. It rained
off and on all day, every day, and no one seemed to notice or care. We
stopped noticing too.
by denali hussin
Scottish rain is a light rain without an assertive presence, and it became as ubiquitous as
sheep dung or shortbread.
Skye is a relatively small island, but a week was nowhere near enough to explore as much
as we wanted to. We did our best; traveling from hostel to hostel after leaving our rental
cottage, puttering around in our tiny, gas-efficient rental car. The scariest thing about Skye
roads (apart from the fact that you have to drive on the other side) is that they are literally
one lane. That means if you encounter a car coming the other direction, either you or they
have to back up until you find one of the little pull-outs, conveniently located every quarter
mile or so. We also managed to narrowly avoid several collisions with sheep.
One day, we explored the Fairy Glens of Uig. This was one of the many places on Skye
where you had the spectacular experience of being able to see mountains and plains on one
side, and endless ocean on the other. In the glens themselves, towering green spires rose
like natural castles to the sky. Winding paths traced spirals through the brilliant green grass,
and led to intricate fairy circles, decorated with the offerings of ages worth of visitors. We
couldn’t tell if the massive towers of moss and stone were natural or man-made—perhaps
they were neither, but the work of the fairies. This idea seemed charming until we discovered
that our camera case, which held a memory chip’s worth of vacation photos, had vanished
into the heather, never to be seen again. To this day, we blame those bloody fairies.
Another day, we found the crumbling castle of Queen Sgathaich (Sky-Ah), the heroine
of many a childhood story for us. Her thousand-year-old castle stands slightly off the
mainland. According to legend, those who wanted to learn to fight from the warrior queen
had to jump the gap to her castle door. If they made it, she taught them the art of war. If they
didn’t, they fell into the gap, where sharpened stakes put an end to their aspirations. When
we arrived, we found that there were the remnants of a drawbridge. The wooden planks had
long ago rotted away, but the stone arches remained. We shuffled along them, hugging the
sides, until we reached the castle. It was surprisingly small, but you still had to be careful
where you put your feet. Moor grass and wildflowers hid holes where stairways used to be,
tempting broken ankles and disappearing siblings. Old window ledges remained,
and arrow slits glared back at the mainland. The legends say that Sgathaich
was a witch and a sealkie, with the ability to transform herself into a
seal. As I sat on the ancient window ledge, my hands gripping the
smooth worn stones, I looked out to sea, where a low ledge
of rocks formed a natural breakwater. I blinked, and the
stones transformed, as twenty seals blinked back at
me.
photos by brianna beehler
18 19

Hiking in the Highlands
by laina rosebrock
People say that going abroad is the best time of his or her life. While I ultimately found this to
be true, the beginning of my time abroad wasn’t as wonderful as I expected it to be. In fact, during
the first month I was pretty miserable.
I chose to study abroad at the University of Dundee in Scotland. The majority of people I told
this too were convinced Dundee was in Australia (Crocodile Dundee, anyone?), so I got used to
adding to the end of my spiel that Dundee is about an hour and a half northeast of Edinburgh—
Scotland’s capital—and is right across the river from St. Andrews (the golf capital of the world).
Since Tufts doesn’t have a program in Scotland and none of the other programs I looked at seemed
that exciting, I decided to be bold and directly enroll in the university.
Although having the advantage of being considerably cheaper than going through a program,
this meant that I was pretty much on my own. The Scottish education system is drastically different
from that in the US, and the student ends up taking on much more responsibility. The first week—
“fresher’s week” as they called it—I spent countless hours running from department to department,
begging professors to let me take 3rd year courses (that normally run for the whole year) for
only one semester, getting approval from the international student advisor, and trying desperately
to fit in with my Scottish flatmates. Needless to say, I felt pretty alone, and only after meeting an
international student from Canada did we decide to put ourselves out there and join one of the
University of Dundee’s largest clubs: the rucksack club.
Despite being the 4th largest city in Scotland, Dundee is relatively unknown outside of the UK.
However, one of its biggest advantages (and tourist lures) is that it lies at the base of the Scottish
Highlands—a beautiful area, hiked by thousands of people every year. Rucksack is the Scottish
word for backpack (as in hiking backpack) and the rucksack club is essentially the hiking club. At
the general interest meeting, my friend and I watched slides from past hiking trips and were overwhelmed
by the beautiful images being flashed across the screen. It didn’t matter that I had never
hiked anything larger than the
hills on Tufts’ campus…I was fit! I
could totally hike a mountain!
The leaders of the club assured
us that each trip would be catered
to hikers of all levels, from novices
to amateurs to experts, and would
of course be followed by a friendly
trip to the pub. We could take multiple
trails depending on our ability
and there would be someone to
point us toward our destination if
we got lost. No jeans, waterproof
pants and a hat were among some
of the requirements (along with a
pickax and crampons for one of
the trips I went on). As I woke up
at six a.m. on the day of my first
hike I could barely contain my excitement.
And although I felt like
a pretty big daredevil, the comfort
that I was not the only beginner
on the trip and that we could take
the easy trail assuaged my jittery
nerves.
So, imagine my surprise when
my first ever mountain hike into
the Highlands—to a place called Blair Athol, one of the Munroes, which is what the mountains in
Scotland are called—turned out to be 15 miles long. No, that is not a typo. By noon, after hiking
for four hours already, I realized the one sandwich I had brought would probably not be sufficient.
Luckily, the other hikers in the rucksack club were generous enough to share their food with me.
And although I only got home at 9 pm that night (with my legs hurting so much I could barely
move) and received countless frantic calls and texts from my flatmates—who, I later found out,
thought I had died, I felt incredibly proud and accomplished. There is nothing quite like standing
at the top of a mountain that you have just spent five hours climbing and seeing the beauty of
nature all around you.
I went on two more hiking trips after the first one to Blair Athol, one to the Ochills and another
weekend trip to an area about an hour outside of Inverness, in northwest Scotland. Each time I
couldn’t believe the breathtaking views that surrounded me. Scotland has some of the most beautiful
hiking areas in the world, and if you ever get a chance to go there, I highly suggest you take it.
Your hike doesn’t necessarily have to be 15 miles, but at least try to trek as far as you can, because
the things you see along the way make it worth it. And be sure to take a celebratory trip to the village
pub when you’re done.
20 21

y michelle beehler
First of all, it wasn’t an easy place to get to. A train from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and then a local
bus from the city center would get us to the Glengoyne Distillery. I hadn’t been paying much attention
to the elderly man in the bus station, but B had. The man had given her directions; we would
have to flag down a bus to get a ride back. He’d said something else about how the highland hills
were beautiful, but his accent was so strong that no one quite understood what he said and no one
wanted to ask him to repeat it twice. He wore a pair of kick-ass blue Wellies.
At Glengoyne we bought tickets for the tour. The lady at the counter asked us if we’d driven
there. No, we’d taken the bus. I noticed that our tour guide wore plaid paints.
We were given our first dram of whisky (so much more in the glass than we’d expected) and sat
down in front of a video about Rob Roy, the Scottish version of Robin Hood. There was probably a
lot of information in the video (Parliament was mentioned; so was Sir Walter Scott), but we were all
so focused on trying to finish off our dram before Arthur, our tour guide in the plaid pants, could
come back and discover that we were all sissies. We were so proud of our empty drams, because
we’d impressed Arthur. He taught us to say “cheers” in Scottish Gaelic. Slaandjivaa.
It was January and cold, with a good couple of inches of snow on the ground. This didn’t seem
unusual to us, but the Scottish water pipes seemed to feel differently and were bursting all over the
place. Our tour involved many detours, as rooms were flooded and doors shut. The whole time we
exchanged nervous glances, knowing that more whisky was in our future.
At the end of the tour Arthur sat us down with a couple of glasses and a bottle of single malt
Scotch. He taught us how to chew the whisky properly and notice the difference in taste with and
without a drop of water. After the first couple of drams we told Arthur we were done with the taste
testing. He insisted we tried another. “The next one is my favorite,” he said. The one after that was
also his favorite.
It was difficult later to flag down our bus. We had to convince S not to run up the road in search
of highland cows.
HISTORY OF THE EUROSTAR
The Eurostar, a train connecting London
and Paris, recently celebrated its fifteenth
year of operation. Read this guide before
planning an excursion off the Continent.
history
The idea of a tunnel connecting Britain and France was first proposed in 1802, but plans were abandoned
for almost two centuries, until the 1980s. Construction of the tunnel was completed, and service
began in 1994. Today, service is offered not only between the two primary stations of St. Pancras and
Gare du Nord, but also to Brussels, Belgium, and continuing past Paris to southern France.
by rebecca grunberg
the stations: St. Pancras in London and Gare du Nord in Paris
Food, drinks, and shopping are plentiful at both stations, and the Eurostar provides a check-in lounge
with wireless at each end for passengers waiting for their trains. Both stations are centrally located and
well-served by public transportation. St. Pancras is connected to the King’s Cross/St. Pancras tube station,
where six Underground lines meet. Gare du Nord is on Métro lines 4 and 5, as well as RER lines
B and D.
the trip
The trip from London to Paris takes 2 hours and 15 minutes (for comparison, a flight from Heathrow to
Charles de Gaulle takes about 1 hour and 15 minutes). Passengers can choose from three classes of service:
standard; leisure select, with larger seats, magazines and newspapers, and meals and drinks; and
business premier, which also includes exclusive lounges, wi-fi, and an optional chauffeur service (at a
considerable increase in cost). No matter which class you choose, the ride is smoother than an airplane
ride and delivers you straight to the center of the city.
green
Train travel is more environmentally friendly than flying, emitting approximately one-tenth the carbon
dioxide of a flight from London to Paris. Other green initiatives include recycling of on-board trash,
using e-tickets which can be downloaded to mobile phones to reduce paper consumption, and serving
local and organic food on-board. The company also operates on a carbon-neutral basis by investing in
energy projects around the globe.
other ways to get to the continent
Flights- Many discount European carriers offer service from the United Kingdom to the rest of Europe.
Try avoiding Heathrow and flying from one of London’s four other airports, such as Stansted, where
Ryanair and easyJet are based, or Luton, with low-cost flights to destinations across Europe.
Ferry- The most popular ferry crossing is from Dover, England, to Calais, France. The cities are only
33 km apart, and the trip ranges from 35 minutes to 2 hours, depending on the speed of the ferry you
choose. Dover and Calais both have train stations and inter-city bus stops.
Driving- If you want to take a car with you, there are car transport trains through the Channel Tunnel (a
35 minute trip), or ferries which allow cars on board. Don’t worry about ending up on the wrong side
of the road- customs and check-in are designed so that you end up on the correct side without even
realizing the switch.
22 23

Patagonia
is
Beautiful
by jenna liang
There’s nothing quite like it. The shot. The crack.
And the camera shutters clicking.
I was standing on the very edge of the gigantic
Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina with a half-eaten
banana in hand and my camera resting on my
arm, pointed in the general direction of the sound
of cracking several hundred feet away from me. The
only thing between the moving slab of ice and me
was a feeble wooden fence and a small channel. My
eyes darted about the face of the glacier, looking for
the next boulder of falling ice. They say the glacier is
alive. It crawls along two meters a day, destroying everything
in its path. Despite its destructiveness and
close resemblance to a sheet of ice, the Perito Moreno
Glacier is a UNESCO World Heritage site today.
The little town of El Calafate is one of best places
to view glaciers in Patagonia. Los Glaciares National
Park is a short drive away and home to the monstrous
Perito Moreno Glacier. Known for its large size and
sculpture-esque scenery, the glacier is famous. The
color of the ice is described as icy blue. Some even
put that color into yet another category, naming the
shade glacier blue. Nevertheless, the thrill of being
close to a glacier simply cannot compete with climbing
one. With crampons roughly tied to our feet, we
embarked on a two-hour hike on the glacier, which
one can only get to by boat. It is quite an experience
to dangle your head at the opening of a hundredmeter
deep ice hole, or to caress the startling blue ice
with gloves that prevent your fingers from severing.
While we clambered through naturally formed ice
fissures, I was enamored by the breathtaking scenery
that served as a backdrop to the Andes mountain
range. In fact, I was so captivated that I had an
extremely close encounter with Perito Moreno
and was rather cold and wet from an accidental
plunge into an icy pool.
From there on, we crossed into Chile while
our Argentinean guide attempted to make
us lose our wits with horror stories about the
Chilean customs. After throwing out our apples,
we were met with a spectacular welcome
from the mountains of Torres del Paine. As the
Spanish name of the national park points out,
several tall towers stand towering over the
rugged mountains and teal rivers, not unlike a
scene from the Lord of the Rings. Those towers
are the epitome of graphite rock-climbing and
from up high, climbers can see where the multiple
rivers meet to form a giant rushing of water
into the lakes below. This national park is
one of the best places to experience Patagonia
in all of its wonder. Apart from hiking, fishing
is a great way to spend an afternoon especially
if it means the fresh catch appears on the dinner
table. Of course, we had our intimate encounters
with the mating guanacos, a type of
llama, which needed no privacy at all.
After waking up at 5:30 am on Christmas
Day, which our guides deemed a leisurely
morning, we traveled to one of the oldest colonial
towns in Argentina. Salta is known for
being on the very edge of the renowned Calchaquí
Valle. This World Heritage site contains
the spectacular Cafayate Gorge. Known for its
distinctive earth-red rocks, the Cafayate Gorge
is situated in the middle of a desert where cacti
are abundant. While walking along the windy
bottoms of high canyons, one can see locals
herding goat, their livestock leaving behind a
trail of their existence. These wind-made formations
over the centuries have created a garden
of fascinating sculptures, some likening
a toad, an amphitheatre, and even the Titanic
with Kate and Leo at the very front.
Patagonia is beautiful. To borrow an old
Chilean folk story, “In the beginning, God created
the wonders of the world. When He was
finished, however, He saw that He had many
leftover pieces. He had parts of rivers and valleys,
of oceans and lakes, of glaciers and deserts,
of mountains and forests. Rather than let
such beauty go to waste, God put them all together
and cast them to the most remote corner
of the earth. This is how Chile [and Argentina]
was born.” If you has the chance, you should
definitely travel to Patagonia.
25

City
Life &
Island
Time
April vacation in Greece,
a country of blinding sunshine,
oracles tucked into
mountain sides and salty
card decks of feta.
by ariel rosen
After debarking from an early morning flight,
four girls found themselves in a taxi pulling
away from the curb, backpacks in the trunk and
not a clue where they were heading. Everything
worked out in the end, and the driver only overcharged
ten euros per gullible American, but this
mixture of bewilderment, wonder and surrender
marked the rest of my time in Athens and Santorini.
Speeding down the highway, I’d found
somewhere genuinely new, and gave in to the
freedom of having no control.
In the pouring rain, we found a busy café
overlooking the neighborhood plaza. While we
ate Greek salads and drank strong black coffee,
rainwater streamed over our shoes. Though covered,
the terrace was open to the downpour at
the walls and, situated on a steep slant, became
the site for an urban waterfall. I tucked my legs
up and kept eating.
Athens was hiding its face behind stormy
light and muggy heat. I couldn’t get a feel for the
place. I saw fabric stores and commercial chains,
classical colonnades and graffitied statues, but
didn’t quite know what to make of it all. After
one night spent in a ground floor apartment with
a balcony that didn’t lock and cockroaches that
kept appearing, belly-up, out of nowhere, we
headed to a hostel in Plaka. There, in the historic
center of the city, Athens began to unfurl.
Sightseeing in the tourist sense took a backseat
to exploration. Yes, I hiked past amphitheatres
and olive trees to the Acropolis glowing in the
sunlight. But shrouded in scaffolding and encircled
by tourists, the building didn’t hint at its bygone
greatness. I picked my way down through
a garden dotted with the remains of temples and
dwellings, and reemerged into the spiderweb of
streets, seeking the real.
In the city abuzz with Easter festivities, sacrificial
lambs sizzling in front of every restaurant,
the table called. In the warm air, the fresh, cheap
food charmed me. At any street side restaurant,
Greek salads came in shallow bowls; chunks of
red tomato, rounds of cucumber, thin curls of
raw onion and dark, salty kalamata olives tempted
from underneath a slab of feta. Doused with
oil and vinegar at the table and accompanied by
sesame bread, here was a meal for the price of a
ham and butter sandwich in Paris. If I’d had my
fill of salads, I ordered warm fava eaten with rock
salt and virgin olive oil, creamy, peaked souvlaki,
or roasted eggplant and stuffed grape leaves. I
washed everything down with a glass of Mythos
or Alfa beer, then sat back to people watch.
After four nights in Athens (perhaps too long
for this small city), we took a five-hour ferry ride
to the island of Santorini. Our hostel’s van putputted
up the road carved into sheer cliff and
down the sweep of the two-lane highway to Anny Studios in Perissa, a
town just barely stirring from its winter hibernation on the black sand
beach.
Since we arrived in time for Easter, the first day of the season, prices
were unusually cheap. Lunch rarely came in over five euros, our
four-bed private room with a view of the Mediterranean cost twelve
euros per person, and we rented a neon Kia Picanto for fifteen euros
a day. Over the course of our weeklong stay, tanned men with dark
hair gradually opened shuttered storefronts and repaired palm frond
umbrellas, pulling establishments from their slumber.
We spent hours laying in the just-warm-enough sun by the ocean,
cruising past open fields on bicycles, and exploring Thira, the island’s
largest town. We visited the lighthouse perched over endless sea near
to the volcano, drove to Red Beach (named for its burgundy cliffs),
lunched on a rooftop in Thira and got coffee at The Pure, a café where
club mixes and pound cake are complimentary with your drink.
One afternoon found us in Oia, navigating tiny streets illuminated
by the glare of whitewash. While waiting for the legendary sunset, we
were driven indoors by gusting wind, retreating to a bar for glasses of
white wine. Suspended over the glinting water that follows you everywhere,
visible at every turn in the road, life turned calm.
The street outside was quiet with dusk, and I, pulled from the disorder
of Athens to this place of white and blue, sat on a booth, the
rhythm of the island coursing through my veins.
26 27

[focus] ERIN KESTENBAUM
Traveler: How and when did you get into photography?
Erin Kestenbaum: I started taking photography seriously
my sophomore year, upon taking an Ex-College
class on digital photography. The class inspired me to
look at photography as more than just a functional way
to capture life’s moments.
Traveler: Where are your favorite places to photograph?
EK: I love photographing new cities, as it allows me to
concentrate on the small, rarely seen details that most
tourists fail to notice.
Traveler: Do you prefer to photograph people or more
scenic landscapes?
EK: People are my preferred subject matter, as is it always
an exciting challenge to capture a person’s true
spirit in a single image.
Traveler: What has been your favorite photographic experience
so far?
EK: My favorite photographic experience occurred during
the time I spent in Budapest, Hungary. The city was
incredibly beautiful and off the beaten path of most tourists,
lending a very edgy feel to it. All the buildings were
fascinating to shoot. From the outside they were covered
in graffiti and downtrodden in appearance, yet on the
inside they were lushly decorated and chic.
Traveler: Why did you choose to study in Ireland?
EK: I opted to study in Dublin, Ireland because it fulfilled
all of my requirements for a livable city: young, vibrant,
historically rich and manageable in size.
Traveler: What was your favorite place to photograph
in Ireland?
EK: My favorite place to photograph in Ireland was Howth,
a small coastal town near Dublin. The town’s rocky cliffs
and beaches were fantastic to explore on the weekends,
as an escape from the hustle and bustle of Dublin. As an
added bonus, Howth is also home to a huge population
of photogenic seals.
28 29

CULTURE SHOCK
experiencing the earthquake in Santiago, Chile
by abi benudis
(literally)
Across the world, peoples, cultures, and customs vary. For me, it has always
been interesting to note how greetings differ between places. For example, while
in the United States it is common to shake hands, rubbing noses is the norm for
the Inuits in Canada, and playfully sticking out the tongue is the universal Tibetan
salutation. Imagine the culture shock I experienced when I arrived in Santiago,
Chile for my semester abroad and was greeted by an 8.8-magnitude terremoto, an
earthquake that literally swept me off of my feet.
It was the night before the start date of my program; my travel mate and I spent
the evening organizing our luggage and laying low in the youth hostel where we
were to spend the night. At approximately 3:45 am, I awoke to a shaking room.
At first, I thought that the subway line ran under the hostel and was causing the
tremors. I soon realized that this could not be the case. My travel mate and I got
up from our bed and were thrust across the room; it was as if someone had lifted
up our room and shook it with full force. The pictures that were hanging began
to fall and our luggage shifted across the floor. Car alarms rang and glass came
crashing down in the hallway outside of our room. We ran to the doorway of our
room, but it was locked from the inside, and without any light we could not find
the key to exit. We instead stood in the locked entryway of our hostel, hand in
hand, watching the paint crack from the foundation of the ceiling and waiting for
trembling to run its course.
After a two-minute lifetime, the ground stood still once again. We found the
key to exit our room and we quickly made our way down the stairs to find a spattering
of other hostel guests, just as confused and as terrified as we were. With cell
phones and flash lights as our only means of electricity, a group of us stood in the
hostel lobby, speechless and stunned that we had just experienced what we would
later find out to be the fifth largest earthquake in the past century.
It has been 48 hours since the big quake hit, and already Santiago has experienced
a dozen or so aftershocks – mini trembles that are harmless with the exception
of their ability to make my heart jump straight into my throat. That being
said, I believe that the worst has passed. Chile is a country that is accustomed
to temblores; much of the infrastructure was built in order to handle the natural
trembles of the earth. It is also a resilient country, ready to face the devastation
and move forward.
As my spiritual host mother here in Santiago said to me to explain the situation
at hand, “Aquí, la Madre Tierra siempre está diciendonos algo.” (Here, Mother
Earth is always telling us something). Looks like Mother Earth wanted to greet
me in style and give all of Chile a heads up. Watch out Santiago, Abi Benudis has
arrived!
30 31

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