Jessica Rogness/Staff

As a Californian, sometimes I forget that our involvement with the history of the United States doesn’t go back very far. California, a late 19th century state, is one of those middle children of the U.S. family. The East Coast — the older sisters — is where what we know as the United States began. So when I traveled to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the history geek in me lit up, because Boston is a city of historical firsts in so many ways.

I thought this was a unique idea of mine, Boston being a place of first times in the United States’ history, but then I read Wikipedia, which told me that Boston has many “firsts” that I had forgotten from the long litany of facts various tour guides told me. You probably didn’t know that they had the first public school and the first subway system in the United States.

Lexington Battle Green: “The Birth Place of American Liberty”

It’s not just the basic institutions that began there, though; the very beginning of our country can be traced to Boston. The Bostonians we encountered on our trip were quick to remind us of so many things that began or happened for the first time in their city. Most of all, they told us that Boston is where the American Revolution first began, and I think you would have a hard time disputing that. Boston’s certainly where many important moments leading up to the war, like the Boston Massacre and the Boston Tea Party, took place. The surrounding towns of Cambridge, Lexington and Concord are where Paul Revere (and William Dawes and Samuel Prescott, let’s give them their due credit) rode through to warn that “The British are coming!” (Except they didn’t really say that, because the colonists were British too, if you remember, and no one would have taken our boy Revere very seriously if he announced that their own people were showing up.) Finally, Lexington is where the first battle took place.

Harvard University’s Gate, where tradition says you only walk in once as a freshman and walk out once as a graduate

Of course, Boston claims fame in more than just our wars — also education. Harvard University, right next door to Boston in Cambridge, is the first institution of higher learning in the United States. And particularly because they state their founding date as the first year the Massachusetts Bay Colony commissioned the First College of Newton in 1636 (Harvard’s first name), it even predates the founding of our country.

Boston’s Fenway Park

Rounding off warfare and education, there’s sports. Boston hosts the Red Sox in the oldest ballpark still standing, Fenway Park, which is 100 years old and counting. While it’s not the first park ever, it’s the first to stand that long.

The John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum

Massachusetts was home to more than one president: both father and son presidents Adams and presidents Bush lived in Massachusetts at some point. Boston itself has proudly claimed our first and only Catholic president, John F. Kennedy. His presidential library and museum are located there. There is no way to describe the feelings that this building evoked in me. Whatever your politics, you can’t deny that this place, which sits on the water on prime real estate near the University of Massachusetts, Boston, combined with the legacy of the Kennedy family, can inspire you.

Fireworks igniting over the Charles River

We experienced a lot of history on our trip, but I think we also participated in a small part of Boston’s history as it was being made. We went to Boston’s first major event since the deadly Boston Marathon bombings this past April. Less than three months after that tragedy, Boston celebrated Independence Day. We didn’t sit on the Esplanade, where many families traditionally gather for the Fourth, so we didn’t have our belongings searched. But even on the MIT side of the Charles River, every form of law enforcement imaginable was present: Massachusetts Police, FBI, National Guard, bomb dogs and even a helicopter were patrolling to make sure everyone was safe and “Boston Strong.”

I could go on and on about how many “firsts” I learned happened throughout history in the Greater Boston area. But for me and my traveling companions, Boston was also a last. It was the last time we would take a trip together as a Girl Scout troop. While I’m sure we will travel together again, our last girls graduated from high school this year, and our troop will disband. Boston provided us with an historical trip, both for learning the history of our country and for helping us add to the history of our group.

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Erum Khan/Staff

You can tell you’re getting closer to the beach once the pedestrians you pass are wearing fewer and fewer articles of clothing. Suddenly, shirtless men abound, and loose T-shirts ending just below the backside are all girls need to throw on top of their bikinis. This perfectly toned, tanned, scantily clad image of surfers and babes is what the world sees when they think “California.” After all, Katy Perry sang about “Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top!” So it must be true.

Well, a lot of the time it is — at least, in what we real California girls like to call SoCal. When you say you’re going to the beach, most of the time it’s pertinent to ask, “Which one?” Newport Beach, Huntington Beach, Venice Beach? I have three other ones within pretty close proximity of my home alone, not to mention the ones a bit farther out that my family and I visit less often. I’m one of those odd creatures who doesn’t actually enjoy sand-crusted feet and saltwater sticking to my skin, but it’s still somehow comforting to have the beach nearby. It’s nice to have the option of going, even if it’s just once in a while.

What I love best about our beaches is that you don’t have to be in a bathing suit to have a good time, despite what popular songs tell us. You can just walk along the boardwalk or take a picnic and eat by the water. You can duck into different shops nearby — not to buy things but just to look at what they have. At Laguna Beach, my all-time favorite in So Cal, there are countless shops and eateries near the sand and water to explore. You can marvel at handmade trinkets, admire animals and flowers made entirely of wood or step into one of many art galleries to see which paintings and sculptures are on display. You could buy some too, but as a student on a budget, I abstain from splurging on more than the occasional candy apple.

There at the shore, there’s no hurry to go anywhere, nothing you need to check off your grocery list. True, most people there are either in weekend mode or vacation mode — hence the location. But overall, there seems to be some transformation people undergo as they approach the shoreline. It becomes time to put on the shades and kick back in the sun with a good book in your hand. Sure, traffic can still be horrendous, and parking is a hassle, especially with disgruntled officers prowling the streets checking meters. But where else can you find people also going to work in flip flops and Bermuda shorts?

There may be water up north (it is the Bay Area, after all), but it just doesn’t compare to SoCal spots. The Bay Area has an entirely different atmosphere. I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly why I prefer one over the other, but the air just seems to change depending on where you are. And even if you do manage to find a nice beach near Berkeley, can it really compare to those near the O.C.? Come on, try going down to the Berkeley Marina after seeing Venice Beach, and tell me it’s the same. You may get a nice glimpse of the water, but it most definitely will not be the same experience.

Contact Erum Khan at ekhan@dailycal.org.

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Erum Khan/Staff

When the plan to visit Washington, D.C. this summer first materialized, red, white and blue flashed before my eyes before I could stop myself. What could be more American than the capital itself? I was one of the many clueless souls who thought that being there meant absolutely everything there would be important and political. This included the fleeting yet still absurd thought that I’d catch a glimpse of someone boring and significant — maybe a senator or Obama himself! Of course, even without the spotting of VIPs, D.C. still lived up to its literally historical reputation.

Winding down the grass and pavement bordered sidewalks of the National Mall (did you know it isn’t a shopping mall but a giant park? Go figure), I had dueling urges as I gazed at each monument. I felt the need to soak absolutely everything in, trying to capture history in that moment. These were the spots great men stood by and decided the nation’s future! These were the buildings erected to keep such events in our memories! I needed to stop and remember all that but I also really really wanted to capture it on camera, too. Tourists can be so caught up in picture-taking — as well as just being generally obnoxious — that they forget what monumental places they’re in (yes, pun intended). Was I supposed to stand as close as I could to the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial and smile with my arms in the air as my friend clicked a button or read every quote of his etched into the wall and thoughtfully take in their meanings? A careful combination was called for at each site. Despite the fact that the Washington Monument was under construction and wearing what looked like a very fashionable metal hoop skirt, I settled for a boring “standing-in-front-of” picture — no pretending I was taller than the tall white spindle of a building and ”holding its tip” or “stepping on it” poses for me. I did indulge in some silliness next to Eleanor Roosevelt’s bronze statue — nestled snuggly amid a whole barrage of black walls and blocks all dedicated to her infamously four-term husband, three whole chunks of stone declaring his wisdom of, “I hate war” — and mimicked her with my hands clasped in front of me and a patently false smile. Silliness was more difficult next to the hunched-over statues of hungry people representing the Great Depression. If you made fun of them, it was just bad form. Not to mention insensitive.

The same sense of decorum stood at the World War II memorial and the Japanese and Korean War veterans’ ones as well. While some folks did lift their cameras, more veterans and current military members milled about, paying their respects to the deceased. Again, those opposing urges surfaced. Was I supposed to be a tourist or a historian then?

My friend going to school there tells me that she and her friends somehow always end up at the Lincoln Memorial late at night after spending the day around the city. When else can you get ridiculously close to the stone man without someone coming in beside you for a picture? I can never get the picture of animated Zeus from Disney’s “Hercules” out of my head when I think of them lounging around him, dim light illuminating them like ancient Greek torches. Anyway, once I get past my childish tangents, I can’t imagine having a cooler spot to just hang out. We Berkeley kids may sit on the ledge of Doe Library at midnight and think ourselves daredevils, but I don’t think anyone could beat sitting on the steps of the nation’s history on a Friday night just because they can. Hang out in the campus’ quad? Nah, we’ll just hit up good old Abe instead.

All in all, I was reminded that all these types of encounters could exist in one spot. The more glamorous and sometimes annoying temporary moments of tourists grasping for every physical memory they can get to take back home with them. The silent ponderings of someone lost in the past. And finally, the everyday moments of those living there, tucking away memories of their own city.

Contact Erum Khan at ekhan@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter @erumjkhan.

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Gabrielle Nguyen/Staff

As my trip to Grand Cayman, the largest island of the Cayman Islands, came to a close, I realized that what I took away from the trip most was, well, a lot of extra pounds, if we’re being honest. The food can be a little pricey at times, but if you’re a seafood lover, you will thoroughly enjoy the foodie life in the Cayman Islands.

Of all of the restaurants I was able to enjoy (I’m fortunate enough to come from a food-loving family), I enjoyed a restaurant called Agua the most. The restaurant has a wide selection of dishes on its menu, which you can check out here. During my experience at Agua, I inhaled a special grilled snapper with a truffle lobster bisque sauce and a shrimp kebab on the side. For dessert, I highly recommend the homemade gelato. I had a major foodgasm when I tasted that first bite of the homemade hazelnut gelato, and then I had 10 more foodgasms when I ate the rest of the three entire scoops in the bowl.

Homemade hazelnut gelato at Agua

And if you like to not only eat seafood but also play with sea animals (seems like sort of a screwed up combination, doesn’t it?), there are a number of activities in Grand Cayman that I don’t think anyone should miss out on. First, aside from a couple of wonderful dolphin sanctuaries, there are also various snorkeling and scuba diving tours. But my favorite sea animal interaction was swimming in Stingray City. No, it’s not an actual city. It’s a sandbar in the middle of the ocean where stingrays gather around and are surprisingly very friendly. I was scared shitless before I stepped off of that large double-decker boat, thinking, “Wow, those stingrays must hate me now. They don’t want this big-ass boat in their city…” But surprisingly, I was wrong. The stingrays in the sandbar are very friendly and are very receptive to human interaction (especially since we feed them fresh cuttlefish). I was able to kiss, cuddle with and even receive free back massages from the dozens and dozens of stingrays swimming around my feet. They reminded me of my friends’ cats rubbing against my leg as I walked by them — but just a little more … wet. Seriously, it was probably one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. Highly recommended.

Wormwood plant at the Queen’s Botanical Garden on the east side of Grand Cayman

Roadside fruit stand on east side of Grand Cayman

As stimulating as that experience was, one of my favorite parts of my eight-day trip was the day my family and I went on an island tour. I was fortunate enough to travel around the entire island, learn its history and even get some fresh fruit along the way. Our first stop was the Queen’s Botanical Garden. There were many interesting plants and fruit-growing flowers, some of which were medicinal. I looked at some of the ones that Dr. Presti taught me about in “Drugs in the Brain” here at Cal two semesters ago. Afterward, we checked out The Blow Hole, which is a large geyser on the east side of the island that shoots out water as the waves came in. I took some pretty cool Instagram-worthy pictures, if you know what I’m saying. (Mostly ones of me pretending I was in a tsunami.) After that, we headed over to the best roadside fruit stand I had ever been to. I’ve been to a couple in Hawaii, Costa Rica and a couple others in the Caribbean, but of all of those, this one was the best by far. An adorable, energetic Filipino woman fed us fresh starfruits, soursops, sweetsops, watermelons, mangos, papayas and strawberries … I mean, this place was fruit heaven. She even put a bunch of those in a blender really quick for us and made us the most delicious smoothies my family and I have ever tasted. (Tip: Ask them to add peanuts — it gives the smoothie a surprising salty crunch to it). Roadside fruit stands with locally grown fruit in Grand Cayman are a MUST. After the fruit stand, we headed to Pedro St. James Castle. Pedro St. James Castle is not an actual castle, but is a large house. It was the first stonewall house built in Grand Cayman back in 1780. The fact that the house was only three years younger than the Declaration of Independence was fascinating to me, and the man who gave us a tour of the “castle” — he called himself Mr. Carl — was an ancestor of the original house’s builder, William Eden. For you history and anthropology connoisseurs, many of the original artifacts from 1780 are still in the house — even the old rocking chair that William Eden sat in.

William Eden, original builder of Pedro St. James Castle’s, rocking chair from 1780

My eight days in Grand Cayman were eventful and draining (mostly because of those extra-strength UV rays) but definitely worth it. If you skip everything else on this list, what I recommend doing most is visiting Stingray City. It’s always fun and interesting to interact with animals in their natural environments, and it was especially compelling to see how friendly these animals with seminegative connotations are — I mean, the word “sting” is in their name. Seriously, I cannot get over how enthralling it was to cuddle and kiss something that is supposed to “sting” me … I don’t need a significant other. I just need a stingray … right?

Image sources: Gabrielle Nguyen, Staff

Contact Gabrielle Nguyen at gnguyen@dailycal.org

Correction(s):
A previous version of this article misspelled William Eden’s name.

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Mackenzie Bedford/Staff

While California houses a large number of colleges and universities up and down the state, there are few towns that really exemplify what it means to be a small college town like San Luis Obispo. Cal Poly students seems to dominate the immediate population and can be found at almost any establishment within a 15-mile radius. Although it’s only about a three-and-a-half hour drive from Berkeley, the difference in tempo and temperament could not be much greater. The few blocks of downtown that are surrounded by miles of suburbia and farmland are a far cry from the citylike atmosphere of Berkeley.

Strolling down on the main road off the freeway, Marsh Street, you’ll immediately notice differences. After parking your car and walking out of the garage, which boasts an incredibly lower parking rate than anywhere in Berkeley (or the whole Bay Area, for that matter), we immediately spotted a running police motorcycle with an iPhone sitting on it — with no actual policeman in sight.

Aside from the (apparent) innocence of the streets, the whole area is pretty interesting. The streets are lined with quirky shops and locally run restaurants. If you walk around enough, you will run into the famous Bubblegum Alley. And the name pretty much says it all — it’s an alley where the walls are lined with layers upon layers of previously chewed gum. It’s quite the colorful display of disgustingness, but it’s undoubtedly unique. When walking down it, it is suggested to keep your arms and legs multiple inches from the bordering walls at all times.

While it may seem like there’s a fully functioning drive-in movie theater just to keep up the small, quiet town effect, it’s nonetheless still fascinating. Playing two movies every night for the unbeatable price of $7, this venue understandably draws quite the crowd of tourists in the summer. For those of us who hate being disturbed by surrounding audience members in an actual theater, the silence and solitary space of a car is extremely welcome. Not to mention that sneaking snacks in purses isn’t necessary.

Taking a visit to San Luis Obispo is highly recommended. If you have friends who go to Cal Poly, take advantage of them by commandeering their couch for a weekend so that you can enjoy the slow pace of the town and surrounding beaches (and their company, of course).

Contact Mackenzie Bedford at mbedford@dailycal.org.

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Mackenzie Bedford/Staff

While most of us would love to be able to traverse the globe in our time off from school, such endeavors are quite costly and time consuming. It is much more realistic for most of us to be able to make our way to somewhere close enough to Berkeley and all of your responsibilities here that you could make it back relatively quickly, but it would also be far enough away to be able to forget the stresses of life for a moment. Luckily for those of us in California, a ton of places exist just a few hours away. One such place is Avila Beach, located right along the Central Coast (about a four-hour shot from Berkeley right down the 101). And believe us, it’s worth the drive.

Set inside a bit of a cove, the beach is relatively calm and warmer than a lot of the surrounding area. Almost every day — without fail and regardless of the omnipresent veil of fog in the mornings — the beach is sunny and warm by around noon. This doesn’t make the water any less bitingly cold, but it makes it a bit more tolerable when it reaches above 75 degrees on the sand. The general lack of waves for the majority of the time allows you to be able to actually swim around and all the way out to the buoys, if you feel so inclined and aren’t deterred by the occasionally posted signs warning of the possibility of sharks.

There is the unfortunate drawback of the near-constant presence of tourists strewn along the sand. Due to the beauty and unusual warmth of this particular beach in comparison to the surrounding ones like Pismo Beach, it is a hub for visitors who want to enjoy the picturesque coastline. We recommend going early and claiming not only a spot on the sand but also a coveted close parking spot. By midday it is nearly impossible, except with some seriously good karma, to find a parking spot that doesn’t require at least a 10-minute walk. But the tourists don’t usually make it out there before 11 a.m.

If you can get there on a Friday, we highly recommend stopping by the afternoon farmer’s market that takes place along the boardwalk. It’s full of quirky people who are somewhat reminiscent of the characters you see along Telegraph Avenue on any given Saturday in Berkeley. There is always some sort of band that inspires the adults to join in some awkwardly amusing dancing. Food booths that line the way include delicious grub like fresh fish tacos, crepes, tri-tip sandwiches, roasted corn and — our favorite — homemade pie.

This little piece of paradise lends itself to relaxation and beautiful sunsets. Taking a walk to the end of the pier with some pie to watch the sunset is pretty fantastic. It’s also hard to beat just lying in the sand and sun, reading a good book and enjoying a beautiful summer. Avila Beach provides the perfect escape from the bustle of the city and demands of daily life without breaking the bank.

Contact Mackenzie Bedford at mbedford@dailycal.org.

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Susan Urrutia/Courtesy

Do you remember your first Hot Wheels? I was perhaps 6 or 7. It was the time when “Pocahontas” came out, and I watched on VHS how she so magnificently straddled around the woods talking to possessed animals and hopping to the rhythm of the rainbow-colored wind like a deer herself. My version of those woods, however, were tantamount to a road about 30 houses long that quietly hid away from the downtown bustle in a middle-class neighborhood in my hometown in tropical El Salvador.

The October winds whispered that summer was coming and, sure enough, it was time. I was wearing a knee-length black dress with color buttons the size of M&Ms, my trademark white socks with ruffles on the edges and black, flat, patent leather shoes — totally 90s style that will shame me forever — but I was ready. To match my clownish look and, with the full force of my stubborn disposition to beat my fears, I got my bike out of the backyard. The big almond tree in front of my house’s lawn was the start, and the end of the road was the finish line. I mounted it, and before God as witness, I rode my Pepto-Bismol colored bike out to the street, making no concessions to my Nana’s biking Prohibition mania.

I tempestuously raced against the wind, pedaling as fast as my twiggy legs would allow and scantily breathing while my thick, brown hair waved back against the breezy thrill of my newfound freedom and the spite of a 6-year-old riding her bike alone for the first time.

Halfway around the world 17 years later, I grumpily ride a hot pink bike to school in snowy Copenhagen. A bit more stylish now with black stilettos, a mini black skirt on top of dark wool tights and a flashy beige party shirt hidden under my big black coat, I cycle to the trendy Vesterbro neighborhood during a snowstorm that had traveled from Siberia to Copenhagen. Any stoplight downtown becomes a fashion show, not only for onlookers but also for us cyclists: Long-legged blonde women pedaling in sheer black pantyhose in -10 degrees Celsius weather and thick-thighed Viking men waiting for the green light look like models straight from a Perry Ellis catalogue. In my bliss, replaying in slow motion those handsome Danish men snaking around on their bikes, I break. The bike lane has become a race track. Fact: Copenhagen is home to the world’s busiest biking lane with up to 36,000 cyclists per day. Fact: About 55 percent of Copenhageners ride their bikes to school or work daily. Fact: Copenhageners bike twice back and forth to the moon yearly, cycling 1.2 million kilometers. Fact: Copenhagen is nuts.

This Scandinavian town is a city of trends — the world’s best restaurant lives here; the Louisiana Modern Art Museum has become a zeitgeist landmark for contemporary art lovers; and Stroget Street elongates 1.1 kilometers in hundreds of unique Scandinavian fashion stores. But to the newcomer, what is striking about this city is that riding a bike to work or school is not only the cheapest, fastest and most common way of transportation, but it is also an environmentally friendly trend that, along with other advances and reforms in green technology, is expected to grow and make Copenhagen carbon-neutral by 2025.

In Scandinavia (Denmark, Sweden and Norway, arguably also Iceland and Finland), Copenhagen has been named Bike City for four years in a row. The city’s bike culture developed through the whole of the 20th century, but not surprisingly, it was in the early ’70s during the oil crisis when Copenhageners voted to make the city clean and healthy. Superhighways are being planned not for cars but for bikes, and adding 15,000 bikers to the city over the next five years is expected to save the health care system about $60 million a year.

It sounds utopian, but it is true and possible. Even though I waited a little longer than my classmates to man up and ride my bike under below freezing conditions, I am glad I make my 13-kilometer stretch to school twice a week. On the white-carpeted road, I enjoy some beautiful, frugal moments that I would otherwise miss in a car or on the bus. A couple cycles, hands tied to each other, and behind them, a mother with a cargo bike carries her son to the local kindergarten in what otherwise looks like his personal limo. And as the snowflakes blast against my bare face and melt into sweat drops, I slow down, pausing at intervals only to look at the amazing world-renowned architecture for which the city is famous. All the while, I am not singing “Colors of the Wind” because of course everything is snow-white. Instead, I sing “Old Dirt Hill” by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds.

Now, it’s not always fun gliding through these bike boulevards. What took me some time was to sort out my fear from the angry bikers during the rush hours between 15:30 and 18:00. People can be mean. Because more and more people are joining the bike rage, the city has become congested, and bike traffic is quite dangerous. Sometimes it can be a real hassle to find a decent parking space for my hot pink bike because I will not let my baby fall on top of another bike in a domino effect that can leave it paralyzed and make taking it out of such entanglement a real stress. And sometimes, if I cycle back home still drunk at 4 a.m. when Siberian winds shake even tree trunks from their stillness, there is a chance that my 45 kilograms of girl power will succumb and fall on the ground. Obviously that’s funny, but it is no fun.

But it’s all bliss here in Copenhagen. For this breed of Vikings, there is no snowstorm, rainstorm or raging wind that will make them hop off their bikes. I’m glad I joined them.

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As I sat in the car crossing the English Channel with complete strangers, the conversation turned to our weekend plans. I was tired and nodded idly when asked if I was meeting up with friends, not wanting to explain my situation or my motives — of which I wasn’t even really sure myself — for traveling to London.

I didn’t want to explain how I had missed my flight to Morocco for spring break that morning, or how I had, after hours of deliberation and juggling the ways I could save the second leg of my flight, settled on London as a destination. And I especially didn’t want to bring up the fact that I would be in London for three days completely alone.

I arrived in the city past midnight with nowhere to stay. My phone was dying and I was hungry. I bid my fellow carpoolers farewell, reassuring them that I was meeting up with someone who would take me in for the night. The first hostel I happened upon wouldn’t, but two hours and three miles from Old Street later I was tucked in with Wi-Fi and a flurry of Facebook messages.

“How’s Morocco?”

“Where are you? We’re in Marrakech!”

“I was thinking we could go to Essaouira on Monday!”

Even though I had made a conscious effort to pack light, I was exhausted from lugging around the few belongings I bothered to bring and closed the messages without responding. Status updates were already popping up announcing where many of my friends had gone for the week, often coupled with smiley faces or superfluous exclamation points. I was embarrassed, sad and jealous; I had completely ruined my travel plans and now found myself in a city I had no idea how to navigate with no plans, little cash and no one to contact. The hostel was booked for the next night and I knew I would once again be on the prowl for a place to stay the next day. I logged off of Facebook without posting anything.

By the next day, I had found another hostel out in Wimbledon after hobbling around all morning with my bag. I was still disappointed about my situation, but I realized that I would have to become comfortable with the idea of exploring the city alone.

It wasn’t difficult. London was beautiful, and despite its belittling exchange rate, offered an incredible amount of free entertainment. I got lost in the British Museum wading through history, I ate fish and chips by the Thames and realized I had more trouble than I expected understanding London English. And it was strangely exciting.

When I got back to the hostel that night, I logged onto Facebook before bed. Photos from all around Europe and beyond sprinkled my feed as friends provided visual evidence of their own spring break adventures. Groups smiling at the camera, some doused in the North African sun I had missed by minutes, others posing before the facades of monoliths and architectural wonders built centuries ago. Some mounted monuments, others feigned while holding them, others even desecrated them. It was all in good fun, I figured. I once again had nothing to post and logged off.

The next two days were eye-opening, as I visited free museum after free museum (London is really great for these) and wandered the city’s sprawling parks and galleries. I listened to crazy people get up on stools and preach nationalism at Speakers’ Corner while others berated them. I watched Arsenal lose to their biggest rival in North London and complained belligerently with other diehard fans. I strolled around the posh houses of Earl’s Court at night aimlessly — and I enjoyed it.

I wasn’t held back by anyone; I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I didn’t have to wait for anyone and no one had to wait for me. I spent hours walking from Baker Street to the stunning Regent’s Park all the way through to Abbey Road, but I didn’t feel the need to take a cliche picture that would likely look ridiculous alone anyway. I ate very little, I took the Tube a lot and enjoyed watching people live their everyday lives in a city I was just discovering. My feet hurt frequently.

And at the end of the day, I would log back onto Facebook before bed, seeing the same thing again. Instagram thumbnails with double-digit amounts of hashtags. Location check-ins with double-digit amounts of people. Tagged pictures with double-digit amounts of drinks.

It didn’t bother me at all, nor was I jealous or embarrassed anymore. But I wondered if some of the posting I had done in the past had in any way contributed to my experiences besides proving to others that I had been somewhere with someone. I felt more fulfilled with all the time I had to think alone in London than I had ever felt posting a picture with a friend. I didn’t need a status update for myself to know that. It all seemed a little foolish, even though I knew I would probably resume posting at some point in the near future. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that social networking does less to advance us as individuals than it does to coddle our image for the people around us.

My image had become worthless. I was in a city of millions alone, just a face in the crowd and I loved it. I didn’t have to impress anyone or feel sorry for myself. I could make decisions on a complete whim. I felt less lonely than I had in months.

The freedom that comes with being alone can be powerful. Much is often made of the jump from high school to college — that is, the jump from living pampered by parents to living “alone,” surrounded by thousands of other students of roughly the same age in similar situations. But perhaps what has worried me more, as I have shifted into the last third of my four years, is the jump from college to post-graduation. Friends will move, goals will change, and it is possible that at some point, I will find myself alone.

In the age of social media, loneliness is a scary thought. But being alone doesn’t equate with loneliness. With college life and Facebook getting us spuriously comfortable with constant social interaction, a step away from the need to socially validate myself reassured me that being alone can, in fact, be a beautiful thing — and definitely not one to be spurned or to feel embarrassed about.

At the hostel I was staying at, I met a woman who had seemingly been there for weeks, if not months. She told me she grew up used to small town life in the north of England, where everyone knew each other. After losing her job, she came to London ready to find work anywhere in Europe and to take on a new city alone.

“All of my things, they’re in this one locker,” she said, motioning to a 2-by-4 foot grey door. “The fact that I can go anywhere in the world with just that — it’s very liberating.”

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Beneath Paris’ city lights, an eerie and dark underworld preserves itself in silence from excessive tourist inspection. An entire network of passages, streets and squares lie invisible to the common crowds of chic cafes and busy restaurants. I took a detour from my usual Parisian night walks during the Christmas festivities and decided it was time to take a tour down the metropolis’s wormholes.

My mind was already going down a cochlear path of delirium as I pondered about the afterlife during a visit to Paris’ largest cemetery. Maybe I’ll end up in a casket I said to myself. Or do I want to be cremated and want my ashes to fly with the wind into the ocean? What will people remember of me? Will they? It would be cool to be in display in some futuristic museum 100 years from now. But how … Ah! Disgusting! Damn it! The earth is dripping. Where is the water coming from? I asked myself as I looked up. The whole floor was wet, and the skulls were too. I assumed it was the rain water filtering through the Parisian limestone.

I had waited two and a half hours to get into Les Catacombes, Paris’ unique cemetery. Don’t mind the Pere Lachaise or Montparnasse, which was about three blocks away from the Catacombes and where Beauvoir and Sartre rest so romantically on top of each other in their grave. It was cloudy, and of course I was thinking about the future and the past, what I had done back in Israel and what would become of me in the months ahead in Denmark. But it was ominous to think about my future death and about the approximately six million people buried beneath a single ossuary in Paris’s 14th arrondisement (but the skeletons are actually stocked like wine bottles in cellars extending into other neighborhoods too).

The entrance to this curious cemetery feigns to be just any other box office at another low-key Parisian theater, but when you cross the threshold into hundreds of funereal tunnels, the name “Death” takes on another meaning. I spiraled 130 steps down from street level to a bed of limestone 45 million years old that was created during the Lutetian geological period. (“Lutetia” was the ancient name for Paris.) During this period, Paris had a tropical seashore from an advancing sea from northern Europe. Its marine sludge slowly became limestone that was compressed by the emerging Pyrenees over the last 20 million years and left some gastropodic fossils for me to check out as I walked along the tunnels. Long story short, the tunnels were left abandoned after they had served their purpose during the Middle Ages up until the Gothic period and were, by the eighteenth century, caving in and producing panic in the human world upstairs. So, the Paris authorities had the ominous idea to strengthen the tunnels and fill them with the bones from the Cimetiere des Innocents — which was overwhelmed by old Parisian bones that were becoming a health hazard to the living population — and also from other deconsecrated cemeteries. Abandoned after the French Revolution, the necropolis opened again and survived to see French Resistance soldiers, the construction of a German bunker and, more recently, some mysterious improvised cinema exclusive to some kind of film noir sect, or so it was believed back in 2004.

I felt lonesome as I tried to label with proper names the skulls I was staring at, given that the tunnels have indeed almost elegiac names with their construction date and patrons properly labeled. (Actually, some of the bones in other arrondisements receive some illicit visits from the Cataphiles — an underground secret society of anarchistic artists, lawless fugitives or otherwise rebels without a cause.) The doleful eye sockets, the femurs and the decomposing stench of some of them, piled up in anonymity, didn’t bother me at all. But the nuisance of their loneliness was heartbreaking, as if seeing their bodies breaking into smaller and smaller splinters was awakening my anxiety and infecting me with despair to know exactly what death I will have but more importantly, whom I will join after that …

I wondered if perhaps in life any of them ever went down into Les Egouts, as I did after visiting the Catacombes. Modestly tucked next to Pont de l’Alma metro station and a few steps from the Seine, the Musee des Egouts is the start point to immerse yourself in Paris’ smelly history. What we now know as Les Egouts is the culmination of hundreds of years of architectural puzzling of Paris’ sewage system. The Seine River was a putrid carrier of wastewater from where, unfortunately, Parisians would withdraw their drinking water. Under Napoleon I, two men worked tirelessly to solve Paris’ wastewater evacuation problem. One of them, Emmanuel Bruneseau, sewer inspector and close friend of Victor Hugo, surveyed the existing sewage system. Some of that concrete survey information channeled its way into Les Miserables. We then have the leading character Jean Valjean escaping into Les Egouts in his effort to save his adopted daughter’s dying love Marius from slowly sinking into slimy, fetid sewage water. Hundreds of years later, I’m the one trying to avoid any rancid drop of water from falling on my face and hair yet wishing like a little kid fascinated with grossness to do the underground boat cruise the museum used to offer some time ago.

If you’d like to get more up close and personal with Paris’ “suburban” matrix you will have to go great lengths. I, at least, know exactly where my next party will be once I move to Paris for good.

Image source: Susan Urrutia, contributor to The Daily Californian 

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I arrive early to the airport on my way home from Dublin. It’s the absolute best place for people watching, so I tend to sit like a five-year-old by the window, watching planes take off and land, while eavesdropping on conversations in various languages. (Is it still considered eavesdropping if I do not understand the language?)

My hair is askew with a mind of its own, I’m sure. My face is weathered from days of squinting — forgot my glasses — and facing the harsh winds. Yet there’s still a smile on my face.

It’s my first time traveling without a friend or family member by my side. Yet, I never once feel a tinge of loneliness.

If I had traveled with someone I knew, I feel like I would not have meet so many fascinating people that wander as I do.

The first day in Dublin, I meet a lovely person from Brazil. He teaches me a hodgepodge of words in Portuguese and how to imitate the Brazilian pronunciation. I blush and laugh as I botch each and every word. He never stops smiling as he helps me improve my accent.

A few days later, as I sit down to charge my phone in the lobby of my hostel, a group of people from Croatia, Italy and England join me within minutes to talk about music, life, school and travel. Though we
have little in common, our passion for wandering drives the conversation.

I find out my sweet friend Emily from my hometown is there at the same time as I am. We exchange our crazy study abroad experiences while laughing over a Guinness.

Staying at a hostel is the most amazing experience for a young person. If you have never done it, I think it would benefit your travels greatly if you give a hostel a chance. If you travel alone, you will not be lonely.

Image Source: Rachel Morgan, Daily Californian Contributor 

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