A Tasmanian whirlwind – no devils necessary

By: Megan Brancaccio

During my first week of classes, otherwise known as O(rientation) Week, I stumbled upon a tradition that would probably cause lawsuits in the States. 

What I am referring to is “Societies Day.”

Societies Day is advertised as one of the Tasmania University Union’s longest traditions. It is the event during which students are able to sign up to join societies and clubs happening on campus.

“Believe us,” the sign I came across advertising the event read, “they [the clubs] will tempt you in all sorts of ways.” 

I presumed that free food was what this suggestive message meant. 

As it happens, I was stuck in class until around five p.m., two hours after the commencement of the Wednesday afternoon affair and didn’t stumble down to the carpark until it was already filled with a huge, singular mass of movement. 

Evidently, the people around here liked to get involved, I thought.

Swimming my way through the crowd, I came to a section that was enclosed and guarded by burly security who demanded to see my student ID.

After I was admitted, it only took me a moment to realize that burgers and hot dogs were not the main attraction at this event. Everyone around me was drinking and had been for quite some time.

While I was making my way through, trying to find a club I wanted to join, my friend Will bombarded me exclaiming, “I just joined four clubs! This is my eighth beer!”

Then, his buddy interjected, “The Rafting Society gives you six beers for $10?! That’s the best deal in town.”

Basically, this was the way that these so-called societies goaded you to join. You sign up, you get a beer. 

It should be noted that Wednesday here is synonymous to Thursdays or Fridays in America. Australians sure know how to party. 

By six p.m. everyone started clearing out, kicking hundreds of empty cans as they went. They were all heading to the bar downtown that had a $10 pizza/$6 pitcher deal. 

I bumped into a girl from one of my classes who explained to me that this was the norm. Societies don’t typically hold meetings, rather, they just drink together.

I am certainly looking forward to future school functions.

Join my club

Megan Brancaccio – Australia

During my first week of classes, otherwise known as O(rientation) Week, I stumbled upon a  tradition that would probably cause lawsuits in the states.  

What I am referring to is “Societies Day.”

Societies Day is advertised as one of the Tasmania University Union’s longest traditions.  It is the event during which students are able to sign up to join societies and clubs happening on campus.

“Believe us,” the sign read, “they [the clubs] will tempt you in all sorts of ways.”  

I presumed that free food was what this suggestive message meant.  

As it happens, I was stuck in class until around 5 p.m., two hours after the commencement of the Wednesday afternoon affair, and didn’t stumble down to the carpark until it was already filled with a huge, singular mass of movement.   

Evidently the people around here liked to get involved, I thought.

Swimming my way through the crowd I came to a section that was enclosed and guarded by burly security who demanded to see my student ID.

After I was admitted, it only took me a moment to realize that burgers and hot dogs were not the main attraction at this event.  Everyone around me was drinking, and had been for quite some time.

While I was making my way through, trying to find a club I wanted to join, my friend Will bombarded me exclaiming, “I just joined four clubs!  This is my eighth beer!”

Then, his buddy interjected, “The Rafting Society gives you six beers for $10?!  That’s the best deal in town!”

Basically, this was the way that these so-called societies goaded you to join.  You sign up, you get a beer.     

It should be noted that Wednesday here is synonymous to Thursdays or Fridays in America.  Still, Australians sure know how to party. 

By six o’clock everyone started clearing out, kicking hundreds of empty cans as they went.  They were all heading to the bar downtown that had a $10 pizza/$6 pitcher deal.  

I bumped into a girl from one of my classes who explained to me that this was the norm.  Societies don’t typically hold meetings, but rather, they just drink together.

I am certainly looking forward to future school functions.

Bohemians and Baguettes

Liz Bruner – Sweden 

Gene Kelly famously remarked in the 1951 MGM musical, An American in Paris, that a female passerby was, “One of those third year girls who gripe my liver…You know, American college kids. They come over here to take their third year and lap up a little culture…” 

Geez. We’re only trying to travel and take advantage of the under 21 drinking age in Europe. 

So there I was, one of those third year girls. I have been to the City of Lights once before and had already snapped my photo in front of the Eiffel Tower, strolled down the Champs-élysées with a baguette in hand and admired the Arc de Triomphe. So now what?

The Bohemians, that’s what.

Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison spent lots of time in Paris and Wilde and Morrison are now buried at Cimetiére de Père-Lachaise. It was my bohemian and independent quest for freedom, truth, beauty, love, and a little bit of culture that took me on a whirlwind tour of Bohemian Paris. 

I strolled down Boulevard de Montparnasse and found two of Hemingway’s favorite cafés where he passed the time after WWI writing his novels. As I drank my small, bitter 4 euro cup of coffee, I imagined what it would be like to write a novel in a café in Paris about the Lost Generation and the woes of post-conflict America. I figured I could journal about the Bush years… that counts for a Lost Generation, right?

I found Hemingway, but didn’t quite find Morrison. We made it to the cemetery, but couldn’t find the entrance. Apparently the cemetery is huge and there are lots of dead people there. Instead of not being able to read a map, I prefer to think that my not finding Morrison is an existential roadblock in my quest for freedom, truth, beauty, love and culture, rather than my incompetence with maps. 

Unintentionally, I also found the Mona Lisa at the Musée de Louvre. It was an interesting experience to see the most famous painting in the world. I wonder if Gene Kelly would have thought me a more cultured third year girl after my brief encounter with the celebrated and mysterious lady. 

Certainly, I didn’t consider myself to be more cultured. The Mona Lisa was cool, but I thought to myself, is this really experiencing French culture? Perhaps some people see all the sights and eat all the baguettes they can get their hands on in order to truly experience Paris. That’s great fun, but I think culture may be a bit more complicated than that.

I enjoy the experience of the culture. Speaking broken French with the locals, or sitting in bar pretending to be cool and Parisian count as culture for me. For the most part, I think I got it right. I ate and drank all the local specialties and managed not to butcher the language too much. I scratched the surface of what it was like to be young and alive in the City of Lights. Maybe now I’m a bit more cultured than before, but I’m still searching for my Bohemian freedom, beauty, truth and love. Another trip to Paris is definitely in order. Any ideas where I could start Mr. Kelly?

No Doc Brown required

by: Megan Brancaccio

After arriving in Australia, I discovered a truth that I never would have believed without experiencing it myself:  time travel does exist.

It all began when I boarded that enormous aircraft that would take me to the other side of the world.

The stretch of traveling from Los Angeles to Sydney takes nearly 15 hours, or in my terms, a car ride to school and back. I could feel my legs cramping before we even ascended off of the runway.

Still, I was mentally prepared and physically equipped with the necessary items for such a long haul.

As the flight attendants starting inching down the aisles with the drink cart, I had already swallowed a few sleeping pills to ensure that I would get some rest and avoid dreadful jetlag.

I was not informed, however, that when I would wake up it would be two days later.  

I fell asleep on a Wednesday and woke-up on a Friday.  

In any other circumstance, the only way this would be possible is if I had been zonked out for at least 24 hours.  

But, no, I had only slept for eight.  It seemed impossible.

Traveling westward the hours elapsed, but the time was somewhat at a stand still as the pilot navigated through the various time zones.

The journey from North America to Australia includes the crossing of the International Date Line, the place where I left Thursday behind.

I thought to myself how nice it would be to fly halfway around the world to avoid a dentist appointment by simply skipping the day on which it was scheduled.

Despite feeling quite normal upon waking with all my limbs intact, I could not help but sense strangeness on that Friday morning.

Sure, my experience with time travel was not the Back to the Future sort with a mystical machine full of levers, switches and a huge red button that, when pressed, warps you into a black hole of oblivion, but I did journey through an entire day without living it.

Now I can finally check travel through time off my to-do list.

Single Ladies

Liz Bruner – Switzerland

All the single ladies, don’t put a ring on it, just come to France.

This past weekend, I made the trek from Geneva to Val d’Isere, France, via a few trains and a few train stations in the middle of eastern France. Throughout the numerous hours spent on trains and in transit, my fellow single ladies and I came across a number of Frenchmen who were handsome, bi-lingual in French and English, polite and eager to talk to smiling American girls.

At dinner our first night in the sleepy ski resort area of Les Arcs, we were fortunate to have a young male waiter who was about the same age as my fellow female partners in crime. Not only did he serve us delicious cheese fondue and red wine, at the end of our meal, he gave us coupons for free shots in a local French discotheque. He instructed us how to get there and said he would meet us there later.

Well, the wine must have done something to us, because we got lost on the way to the discotheque, but wound up in a cool, laid back lounge with live music and a fabulous chanteuse (singer). After a few minutes at the lounge, another single lady about our age came up and introduced herself. She was Marion, a local ski instructor who had some single male twenty-something friends that she wanted us to meet. After a few hours of dancing, drinking and speaking French/English, known among the youth as Franglais, my fellow single ladies and I stumbled back to our hotel happily satisfied with the polite kiss on the cheek we received from our new friends.

Saturday morning, my single ladies and I took to the slopes to cheer on notorious American womanizer and Olympic downhill skier Bode Miller at the World Cup Ski Championships at Val d’Isere, France. As we watched Bode ski poorly and come in 8th place out of 15 competitors, we began to talk to two handsome young Frenchmen in uniform. They were promptly joined by five other handsome young Frenchmen in uniform and explained that they were a part of the French ski military, serving their country on skis and performing such tasks as search and rescue and avalanche control. We had a lovely conversation centered around skiing, mountains, and French wine. We were full of questions for these Frenchmen, but their free time was limited and they had to return to their camp for training that night. As we bid them adieu, each one gave us a kiss on the cheek, which in French culture, is an appropriate and gracious thing to do in public. Needless to say, these American girls were smitten!

Americans give the French a bad rap and label the Frenchmen as being overtly sexual and controlling, to the point of being obnoxious. However, we could not have been more wrong about the Frenchmen. My encounters with Frenchmen were pleasant and genuine. Even though my French is not perfect, I managed to hold a conversation with young men that my grandmother would have been proud of. We talked about culture and Franco-American political relations. The name Obama drew a smile more than once, and we received lots of insider information about where to find nice local cheese. We may never see these boys, forgive me, men, ever again, but its nice to know that there are cute, intelligent and friendly guys out there who enjoy practicing their broken English on American girls who are only too willing to listen.

That being said, all the single ladies, get on over to France. Not only will you have pleasant discourse with French guys who ski and speak English, but your blue eyes and straight white teeth will be admired all over the country. Consider yourself the Beyonce of small town France. No Jay-Z necessary.

The night I became Swedish… or something.

Liz Crawford – France

For some reason when I was preparing to leave to study abroad in Provence, France, I had the idea that studying abroad was some kind of automatic makeover. 

When I arrive I’m a stumpy, ignorant American, and during my stay here I miraculously transform into this French globetrotting bombshell. 

I would remember to floss everyday, I would enjoy numerous pastries that wouldn’t have any affect on my figure, and I would automatically understand how the world works- just by being abroad. 

What I never foresaw was that moving to France would ultimately help my Swedish.

The first day I stepped off the plane I was so jet-lagged and distracted that I walked straight through the airport without picking up my suitcase at baggage claim. 

So much for globetrotting bombshell. 

Luckily Leigh Smith, the director of my program (and the most handsome man I’ve ever seen), was able to get me through the back doors of French customs and within seconds, I had my bag again. 

I wondered if Leigh was that good or if French Customs was that lenient. I’m sure that in America, it would’ve taken hours to get my bag back.

After a short bus ride, I arrived at my host mother’s apartment. She was very warm and hospitable but she mumbled French and after 30 hours of travel, I wasn’t ready to articulate my life story in French to her. 

So she kept rambling on about the right time to take a shower, random things about her life, and how she was going to run things around the house. 

I immediately felt suffocated and out of place. Did she really just say her son is in Polynesia or is she asking me if I have allergies?

Within minutes of being there I had to explain several random things like Starbucks and pancakes. 

I had brought maple syrup as a gift for Madame and she had no idea what to do with it. 

After a lengthy, fragmented explanation of Vermont maple trees, Madame realized that I was too tired to handle any more conversation and let me shower and sleep. 

An hour later my new Swedish roommate, Kathrine, woke me up to ask if I wanted to go out with her. I thought “Why not?” This is a new me who takes advantage of everything Europe offers.

 Minutes later I’m sitting at a wonderful café with seven Swedish girls trying to explain why the American education system is so expensive. 

They all spoke English but were studying French so the table toggled between our three languages. 

They were so lovely and so down-to earth. I was happy to have found such great European friends on my first day. 

I naturally accepted when they invited me to go out with them again later that night.

Now, this was a very important night because Sweden was playing France in handball. 

After learning I had never heard of handball, the Swedes refused to let me stay home. 

Apparently Sweden needed my support- face paint and all. 

Earlier that day I was eating lunch with my aunt in Brooklyn waiting for my plane and now I was in a random bar in the south of France with ten Swedish people cheering on some extremely confused soccer players.

The night didn’t end there. Bar after bar, discothèque after rave, I experienced what felt like the entire club scene of Aix in one night. 

With a Swedish flag on my face and a few Swedish phrases under my belt, I had a good excuse for not understanding what the sleazy french men thrice my age were saying to me.

“Sorry, I’m Swedish. I don’t understand French. It would never work between us.”

I’ll never forget how unbelievably freeing it was to dance in a club completely filled with foreign strangers who I may never see again. 

The night was a blur of Swedish slang, flashing lights and walking arm and arm down old cobblestone alleys with an amazing group of new girlfriends. 

I walked home at what was eight a.m. U.S. Eastern standard time somewhat delusional with exhaustion but completely euphoric. 

I already felt like a globetrotting bombshell.

A-Broader Overview

The View from abroad, from both France and Switzerland.