Of Bolsheviks & Bratwurst

    After lots of cramming and sweating during the exam period, I submitted my final paper on Albertus Magnus’ zoological writings and immediately started packing.  4:30am the next morning, I met Vinny and started on our now-familiar trek to take a train to a bus to catch our dirt-cheap Ryan Air flight.  Ryan Air: the low-cost, low-safety airline!  The flight was alright until our very shaky landing (the plane turned nearly 180 degrees and suddenly dropped straight down a few times).  A young girl was so shaken by the landing she had be rushed out as soon as we touched ground (which luckily distracted everyone from my own panic attack). 

Pest at Sundown

    It felt good to be once again in a new country.  As soon as we got into Budapest, we could feel how different it was to Western Europe.  Most obviously: the Hungarian language, which is very unique—the most widely spoken non-Indo-European language in Europe.  We checked into our surprisingly hipster hostel, drank some coffee, and darted right out again to check out Budapest’s classical sights on the Buda side of the Danube: the Buda Castle (the former palace of the kings of Hungary), Matthias Church, and the Fisherman’s Bastion from which you can get an amazing view of the Pest side.

    Aside from the classical sights, we spent much of the remainder of our trip exploring Budapest’s more recent history: Communism.  First, we toured through the Terror Haza (The House of Terror)—a museum which details Budapest’s five month domination by fascism and forty year communist oppression.  While the horrors fascism were already well-known to Vinny and I, the brutality of the communists was a bit more surprising to learn.  Indeed, they were just as bad, if not worse, than the fascists. One of the most tragic things to learn of was the 1956 Hungarian Revolution where the Hungarians enjoyed a few days of freedom before being quashed by Kruschev with more tanks than Hitler used to invade Western Europe (so much for Kruschev’s image as the gentle anti-Stalin).

    The next day, we took a tour of Budapest’s major communist sights guided by two Hungarians who shared a wealth of information and (most interestingly) personal anecdotes.  One of our guides, Áron,  recalled how his father had wanted to get him baptized, yet the Party warned that several of his family members would be demoted or fired (luckily for his soul, he was baptized as soon as the Curtain fell). Under communism, you could not express dissent with the Party in public places (and during the Stalin years, your private life was also heavily monitored).  Class aliens (such as bankers or anyone the Party disliked) would be sent off to re-education camps for several years (it was death camps for them in the Stalin era).  All new residential buildings were dull, and identical, and had very small kitchens (so small you cannot even put a table) to discourage private talk (they preferred you eat at public cantinas).  All youths were forced to join the Communist Scouts, where they learned teamwork, as well as loyalty to the Party and were used as free labor for public works projects.  Our other tour guide, Agnes, recalled how her family saved up, filed the proper papers, and waited the required years to visit the West (Vienna) and how shocked she was to see that they had so many bananas (which were only available behind the Iron Curtain for a short time every year).  The family brought several  bunches back as souvenirs.  Apparently, the one bright spot of the 4 decade oppression was the quality of their television programming—when it was not propagandistic, it was largely educational and broadcast a lot of High Culture (ironic for an ‘egalitarian’ ideology that believed High Culture to merely be a by-product of an exploitative economic setup).

    Overall, Budapest was very enjoyable—it had its own unique flavor, lots of history, and (most importantly) prices were ridiculously low.  It also had a surprising amount of bookshops and in every café and pub you can spot several Budapesters consumed by a book.  Unfortunately, it also had a surprising amount of homeless people, so it felt nice to get back to the West.  After three days, we boarded our bus for the other capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  What could have easily been a 2 hour drive was stretched out over 3 hours because (for some reason) our bus had to take a 20 minute break every 45 minutes.  I guess it’s because I’m from a big country that 2 hours with no break sounds perfectly reasonable.  

Belvedere
One of the Hapsburg's more Spartan abodes

After this painstaking journey, we finally rolled up to the most pristine and elegant city I have yet seen.  We spent most of our time in Vienna walking around in awe of the Hapsburgs and sampling Austrian cuisine (schnitzel, bratwurst, and strudel—Oh my!).  At Belvedere, the sky was grey, crows were cawing, and the trees were bare--reminding me of my tenure as a Resident Evil champion (I kept looking over my shoulder for zombies).  When not beholding the Hapsburg’s modest accommodations, we let our friend Ike seek out for us some interesting nightlife.  Ike turned out to be like a hipster version of Stefon.  He found for us bars with trees inside, bathtubs and dentist chairs, and a ‘future bar’ which looked like a vision of the future from the 1970’s (probably also when it was last cleaned).

    Getting home turned out to be an adventure in itself.  We discovered the metro doesn’t run at 4am, so we had to walk an hour (plus unplanned detours) to the train station where my ticket refused to print out (luckily  the train controller had a heart) to get to Bratislava (since Ryan Air doesn’t fly out of Vienna).  We caught a brief glimpse of Bratislava and I don’t regret not staying longer.  It seems to capture everything you think of when you hear “post-communist.”  By the grace of God, we made it to the airport on time (and our flight was delayed an hour). 

    As of writing this, I have just gotten back from a therapeutic long weekend in Italy and I am packing for Paris.  I also have to acquaint myself with a few pages of Wittgenstein.  So much to see and so much to read, but such is the life of a philosophy grad student in Europe!

¿Dónde está ...?

Long time, no blog.  I am currently writing from the comfort of my home in Hagerstown--quite a radical change of scenery! The past two months have been very busy, but now that classes have ended and I'm home, I finally have time to recap my latest escapades.  In between them, I have spent on average 24 hours a week in the library: but such is the life of a grad student.

Sinterklass in Bruges

In November, I toured around the 3 major cities of Flanders: Ghent, Antwerp, and Bruges. It was nice to get to see more of the region I'm staying in, to get a taste of the local culture.  It quickly became obvious that an "old" building in Europe is one that was built at latest in the 12th or 13th Century.  Bruges is a particularly charming medieval city.  I spent a Sunday there with my Canadian friend Hilary when its Christmas Market just opened and, in a surprise to us, the day Sinterklaas made his arrival (along with his unpolitically-correct helper, Zwarte Piet). We had spent the previous Sunday in Antwerp for the big arrival of Sinterklaas on his boat, but made a long, painstaking detour and missed his grand docking.  Making your way around European cities can be frustrating as they (at least all the ones I've been to so far) don't have street signs, instead plaques on the side of a building which are rare and inconspicuous.

Barcelona

By far the most exciting thing I've done since my last post was going to Barcelona with Vinny from Friday Dec 13 to this past Monday.  Leading up to it, I was completely engrossed with end-of-the-semester schoolwork and rushing to get ready to go home.  As soon as we landed and I smelled the warm, fresh air, my life in Leuven evaporated.  The spirit of adventure once again possessed me.  We took the last train to Paseig de Gràcia to get to our hostel.  I was worried it might be a shady Eli Roth hostel since it was so cheap, but it turned out to be the nicest hostel I have ever stayed in! Very clean, nice facilities, and they even made tapas and sangria for us!  We immediately made friends with several of our hostel-mates, including an enthusiastic Australian by the name of Elliot.

Casa Batlló

The weather (high-60's through 70's and sunny) was a refreshing change from cold, wet, ever-gray Leuven.   We made it down to the port and beach areas twice--it was like stepping into springtime.  The whole city just has a lot of good energy.  We made carpe diem our call to arms that weekend.  Each night we got about four hours of sleep.  We made sure to get out early and enjoy the weather to see the great sights--including the astonishing works of Antoni Gaudí such as Park Güell, Casa Batlló, and, of course, Sagrada Família.  By night we explored Barcelona's active nightlife, although we had to endure a tribulation of solicitors along La Rambla.  

One benefit to travelling to Spain is getting the chance to practice our Spanish.While most Barcelonans primarily speak Catalan, all of them also speak Spanish (and, thankfully, a large number also speak English).  All those years in Spanish class were finally put to use.  Of course, with languages, confidence is almost as important as skill.  Our first morning, Vinny attempted to ask a few young women on the street where a grocery store is, which merely resulted in, "¿Dóndeeeeee....... uh, do you speak English?"

While I've deeply enjoyed hopping around the world again (and I can't wait to continue hopping), I have learned a key fact of life: you can travel all over the world, but there's nothing like home with people who love you!  

Merry Christmas!

Going Dutch

It's been two weeks since I visited the city where the lights are red and the eyes are redder  My weekend in Amsterdam was very different from my trip to London or my time in Leuven so far.  The differences began at the outset.  Whereas my trip to London involved me embarking on an adventure alone, this time I decided to take along my cousin friend Vinny.  This had the effect of confusing me at times whether we were going on a trip together or if I was leading a field trip.  Throughout, I was bombarded with questions such as: "Dan, can we stop?" "Dan, can we get food?" "Where are we, Dan?"  Not to mention sustained unprovoked laughter at me, as well as constantly poking me when we were supposed to be trying to fall asleep.  Note to self: put off plans to have children by another 5 years...

"View of Haarlem"
Jacob van Ruisdael

We left Leuven under heavy rainfall and reached our bus in Brussels just before sunrise as the rain was clearing up.  Driving to Amsterdam, we passed by many cottages, cows, and, yes, windmills.  The flat, open fields and moody sky resembled the paintings of the famous Dutch landscapist Jacob van Ruisdael.

After just arriving to Amsterdam, Vinny and I were rushing to meet my friend Charlie, whom I had met on the bus to London, when we were suddenly recruited by three Spanish ladies to help them find a cab.  I'm not sure how they knew we speak some Spanish ("Oh, look, Americans! They can help us!")  Walking to Charlie's place from Central Station, we got our first glimpse of Amsterdam's iconic canals--the origin of Amsterdam's nickname, "Venice of the North."

Amsterdam,
Venice of the North

The canals form a series of concentric circles with the Red Light District in the center (prompting Albert Camus to compare them to the circles of Hell).  On our walk to Charlie's place, we also got a whiff of the other Amsterdam staple.  I thought it was just a stereotype, but coffeeshops are commonplace in the heart of the city--the pungent odor of cannabis announces their presence every block or so.


After dropping of our stuff at Charlie's, we decided to go check out the famous Oude Kerk, or "Old Church."  While trying to navigate our way through the city center, we unknowingly meandered onto the Red Light District.  It turns out the Old Church is technically in the Red Light District (hey, it's Amsterdam.)  It dawned on  us the same way you slowly realize you are looking at an ant infestation: hmmm an adult toy shop there... a girl in that window... Boom!  Vinny, a pious Catholic, was thoroughly disturbed (and kept reminding me how disturbed he was the whole trip.)  I, on the other hand, couldn't stop giggling to myself like a junior high student.

We were able to see a lot of the city in just two days, thank in no small part to Frommer's Guide to The Low Countries.   We made our way to the Anne Frank House and the Our Lord in the Attic Museum (where Catholics celebrated mass in secret), but most regrettably the Van Gogh museum is closed at the moment and we just barely missed what little part of the Rijksmuseum is open.  However, we were able to see the the New Church, the Dam, the Royal Palace, Beurs van Berlage and take a canal tour.  I was somewhat surprised how different Flemish and Dutch people are (I naively assumed the language similarity implied a cultural similarity.)  On the surface, the Dutch are much taller and blonder.  They are also much more open, blunt, and direct than their reserved, sarcastic neighbors to the south.

It also became apparent to me that Amsterdam is a city of contradictions.  While it is renowned as a very liberal city, according to the testimony of Charlie and other locals, the Dutch are very conservative people.  Most of the customers at the coffeeshops and the Red Light District are not Dutch; the locals mostly tolerate it for the money tourists bring in.  Amsterdam is hailed as a historically tolerant city: from welcoming many of the Jews fleeing from the Inquisition to its current libertine atmosphere.  Yet, we visited not one but two secret rooms where persecuted minorities hid from the authorities.  If anything, Amsterdam is authoritarian: it is selective and arbitrary in which laws to enforce when, where, and to what degree.  The police are a large presence in the city. Technically, cannabis is illegal, they just have a policy turning a (huge) blind eye to it (although they will occasionally raid and shut down coffeeshops as they please.)   They won't mind you lighting up in a coffeeshop, but if you try to sip wine by the canal on a nice evening, they will be on you as soon as you pop the cork.

Well, if it isn't obvious enough already, we left with the impression that Amsterdam is a very unique place.  I have only seen a few cities in Europe, all within 200 miles of each other, yet they are much more different from each other than all the US cities I've been to.  As I hoped, Europe is turning out to be a multifarious place!  Can't wait for my next adventure!

An American in London

“When you come back to England from any foreign country, you have immediately the sensation of breathing a different air…There is something distinctive and recognizable in English civilization…It is somehow bound up with solid breakfasts and gloomy Sundays, smoky towns and winding roads, green fields and red pillar-boxes.”         
      -George Orwell, “England Your England”

I departed my cozy kot at 7am Thursday to catch the train to Brussels.  Ever budget-conscious, I opted to take the bus to London.  Having endured a few twelve to sixteen hour bus rides around Australia, I figured a mere eight hours would be worth saving 100+ dollars.  As I was walking in the cold, crisp morning air, backpack on my shoulders, I began to sense a familiar feeling.  It had been a while since I felt it, and it became more apparent the further into my journey I went.  Something I had not felt since Australia—the feeling of adventure: the liberation, the thrill, the exhilaration. Here I go again, I thought, off on a long trip, with unfamiliar faces through unfamiliar territory.  The song “Good Life” by One Republic, which always reminds me of my time in Australia, was playing in my head.  Its lyrics speak of travelling the world and enjoying life: “We’re young enough to say/ This has got to be a good life…When you’re happy like a fool/ Let it take you over.” The opening lyrics, “Woke up in London yesterday/ Found myself in the city near Piccadilly,” were all the more appropriate this occasion.

My bus turned out to be twenty minutes late in arriving, yet while waiting in Brussels I got to meet a few of my fellow travelers: a friendly young Canadian couple who had both quit their jobs and were spending this year travelling the world (the UK was their last stop in Europe, then onto Israel) and a cooky old English lady who would talk the nearest ear off about Tony Blair selling arms, “the truth about Ireland”, and how much John Lennon inspired her.  We felt so bad for the poor soul who was seat-belted next to her and we were shocked the British border agents did not chuck her into the English Channel. 

The virtues of my chosen method of transportation include enjoying the countryside and making new friends (conversation seems to pass the time better than reading or failed attempts at sleeping.)  I was fortunate to sit next to an English bloke my age named Charlie (sin Chocolate Factory) who is doing his Masters in Amsterdam, visiting home for the weekend and grabbing some things he left behind.  Yet, both of us were unfortunate enough to be selected to have our bags torn apart by French customs.  I had to keep myself from laughing as the French agent slowly opened my bottle of vitamins, holding it away from himself as if it were about to explode, while Charlie had to explain why he had a suspiciously empty suitcase (Ho ho, you know you could at least put a croissant in here?)

While on the ferry from Calais to Dover, the famous White Cliffs slowly crept up from the horizon.  I was immediately reminded of the poem “Dover Beach” by the great Englishman Matthew Arnold, but I was soon after embarrassed when I realized none of my companions were familiar with it.  Back on the bus, we whizzed through the picturesque English countryside and crept through the London traffic to the Victoria Coach Station, where I was welcomed by my dear bespeckled friend, Ben.  Since he kept insisting he did not have any Floo Powder, we took the Underground—the oldest metro in the world!—and made our way to some pints and pie at Ye Olde Chesire Cheese pub—an old haunt of Charles Dickens, Samuel Johnson and fatigued middle-aged professionals.

While he was still in the US, I put Ben up and we toured Baltimore for a day, so he promised to pay back the favor when I was London.  I think I can safely say I got the better end of the deal ;)   In merely two-and-a-half days, we were able to cover a lot of ground—Southwark Cathedral, Borough Market, South Bank, The Royal Academy, The National Gallery, Piccadilly, etc.  It was fantastic to finally see some of London’s icons with my own eyes—including The Eye, as well as Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Shakespeare’s Globe, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace.  

The New Palace of Westminster

As a politics and history nerd, I particularly enjoyed the tour of The New Palace of Westminster, or The Houses of Parliament, which Ben booked.  It was awe-inspiring to walk through that historic place, although I did make sure to shake my fist at the painting of George III.  We had a proper old gent of guide who enlightened us as to the quirky traditions of the Palace—such as how every year the Black Rod beats on the door to the House of Commons exactly three times with his staff to invite them to hear the Queen’s Speech. And apparently the Speaker must be dragged to his chair upon his election.  Our guide also familiarized us with some recent occurrences—how Tony Blair was hit with a bag of flour by a student in the House of Commons and how a student (again) nearly beheaded the statue of Margaret Thatcher.  I shuddered at the thought of new bizarre traditions being created (“the annual pelting of the prime minister”, “the annual decapitation of Lady Thatcher”)

Aside from seeing and touring the great sites of London, it was also nice to get a peek inside daily life of average Britons.  For all the griping I heard, I rather enjoyed English cuisine—fish & chips, marmite on toast, Yorkshire tea, and a proper English breakfast consisting of beans, tomatoes, sausage, eggs and English bacon.  I was disappointed, however, when Ben’s wardrobe would not yield the entrance to Narnia (have to try harder next time…)

When I first entered Ben’s mother’s house, it was almost a too-delightfully-English scene: his mum and stepdad were both sitting in armchairs, she sewing and he reading a book with a large magnifying glass.  Throughout my stay, Ben and his family exhibited the stereotypically dry English sense of humor (“very droll” as Sir Humphrey Appleby would say.)  I also noticed something which George Orwell identified in “England Your England”:

“It is worth noting a minor English trait which is extremely well marked though not often commented on, and that is a love of flowers.” 

A lovely English garden

Flowers seemed to be prevalent in the English home—not only in vases but on wallpaper, on the furniture and in the smell of the air.  It is as if they are trying to bring the garden into the rest of the home.  And it seems the English take gardens very seriously.  While having tea and ice cream at Ben’s dad’s place, his stepmom expressed to me how she was glad they at least have a small but nice garden.  I got the sense that the English don’t aspire to the large house and big yard like in America, but to have and hold onto their own bit of space and unadulterated nature, especially those in the Greater London Urban Area.  Perhaps the same could be said for the city as a whole which is characterized by its many parks (“Over bridge of sighs/ To rest my eyes in shades of green” as the song “Itchycoo Park,” goes.)  Indeed much of British fantasy is an escape from Dickensian city life to some pre-modern, pre-industrial world, be it Never Land or Diagon Alley.

Ben and I enjoying a parting pint at the
White Horse pub before I depart

All in all, my visit felt far too short and I miss London sorely.  I even began to regret not trying to study in London, but a quick glance at my bank balance was consoling enough.  I hope to make it back to England very soon, but in the meantime, my neighbors will have to put up with “Rule Britannia” blaring from my room.

Words and Things

"Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic."
-Albus Dumbledore

Hoi!  Just to give you guys a brief update on my happenings--I am now settled into my permanent room (or kot as the locals call it).  I've gotten to know Leuven a lot better (particularly its pubs).  I've met a lot of new and interesting people from places such as Fiji, Argentina, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, South Africa, Italy, Germany, The Czech Republic, Poland, Hungary, China, Nigeria, Canada, Potugal, Russia, and Japan.   It's so fun to be in such an international environment!  In general, it's wonderful to be abroad again.  Life gets so dull stuck in your own country.  I guess I was born to be a foreigner :)  Classes start this week and the way it works here is that you don't have to sign up right away, rather you attend several classes at first to see which ones you'd like.  So, I'm very excited to start shopping around (Phenomenology, Medieval Texts, and Ethics, Oh my!)

Now onto the subject as indicated in the post title and epigram.  It has been said that language is the basis of culture.  Many others have asserted that language is the reflection of thought. And language has always been central to philosophy.  Ergo, I think in beginning to try to appreciate the culture of my new home, it is appropriate to start with a post on their language.  For those of you who don't know, in Leuven, being in the North of Belgium (Flanders) they speak Dutch, whereas they speak French in the South and a small portion in the East speaks German.  Compared to more popular languages such as English, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic, German, and Italian, very few people in the world speak Dutch, most of them in the Netherlands and Flanders.  

So far, it has become clear that there two general impressions an American has when one first encounters Dutch.  The first, as recorded by Bill Bryson in Neither Here nor There, is that, "one feels one ought to be able to understand it."  The other, as expressed by many American students here, is "what the hell is that gibberish?"  Quite honestly, the latter was my first impression--It sounded much like German at first.  Yet, they say their R's like the French.  And sometimes I swear it sounds like Japanese.

But many many other times, particularly when I'm walking alone and daydreaming, I share Bryson's sentiment.  It really can sound a lot like English at times--just phlegmier (Phlegmy Flemish! Haha!)  Indeed Dutch is the major language closest to English (other minor ones being Frisian and Scots.)  It has frequently been described as right between English and German.  Yet, a wise man once told me that Dutch is "merely a dialect of German with an army." On the other hand, a wise-ass Loyola abroad student observed that, "it's like drunken Facebook talk."

Bier means "beer."  Wafel  means "waffle."  Mijn naam is Dan means "My name is Dan."  Waar is de bar? means "Where is the bar?"     Have to know the important things first ;)

Belgians have a reputation for being odd

Overall, Dutch is a funny language, and Flemish Dutch is an even more peculiar off-shoot (yet all across Flanders there are variations.)   Underscoring the relationship between language and culture, I'd say that it is a funny little language for a funny little place.  Belgium has a reputation for being an odd place.  In fact, I heard so many things about Belgians and their dislike of foreigners that I shamefully began picturing them as little furry hobbit-like creatures.  

Considering my time in Australia as well, I seem to be attracted to interesting little places which many around the world consider "weird" and seem to brush off as not serious places of cultural richness.  I could have rather studied in a large, proud country such as Germany, Britain, or France, each of which have given the world a plethora of venerated philosophers.  Indeed, a few locals have already asked, "Why on Earth did you come here of all places?"  But I find the prospect of delving into the culture of this weird little place all the more enticing.  Many Americans are familiar with the great cultural figures of Britain or France, but what do most of us know about Belgium besides chocolate, beer, waffles, and fries? Jean-Claude van Damme? The Smurfs?  

Anyway, I hope to share my cultural findings in the future.  So far I have come to know their drinking culture quite well, but that would require another post in itself.  Until next time! Or as they say here, Tot de volgende keer!

The View from My Window

It's a beautiful Sunday here in Leuven!  Today is the last day I am staying at the guest house, so I thought I'd snap a pic of the view (especially considering the view from my new room will not be as good)

The Adventure Begins...

Well, it's only been 2 days since I landed, but it feels like weeks. Just making my way to Leuven was an adventure in itself.  My flight was delayed six hours, so my thrilling journey began with me sitting in JFK bored out of my mind.  Luckily I slept most of the flight so I before I knew it, I was on the European continent for the first time in my life!

Getting off at Brussels Airport and making my way to the train it suddenly dawned on me:  I am on my own. In another country. In another continent.  It's not like moving out "on my own" to college, nor like going to Australia where we had a guide show us the way and there were 30 of us in the same boat.  I couldn't help but think

God, what have I gotten myself into?

While sitting on the train, I took a deep breath and regained my composure.  I was realizing that this is a new step in my life.  Quickly enough, the impact of that realization turned into excitement.

Leuven Town Hall

I clumsily managed my way around Leuven.  Luckily, it is true that most locals speak English.  And counter to the stereotypes, they were very helpful and friendly.  I immediately noticed how "old" Leuven feels--older than anywhere in the US or Australia--and how cramped the streets seem with the buildings so tall and close together.  It was emptier than I expected (since classes still don't start for two weeks.)  This would be a cool place for a zombie movie, I couldn't help but think.

Oude Markt

Oude Markt

After lugging my laptop bag, a duffel bag, and my suitcase-on-wheels (great for cobblestone roads, btw) halfway across town I arrived at the Residential Management Office exhausted and sweaty.  I picked up my guest room key, dropped off my stuff, and took a shower promptly.  I couldn't wait to head back to the center of town and start exploring.   I wondered around and found their famous medieval Town Hall, St. Peter's Church, and the Oude Markt "the longest bar in the world."

The rest of my time so far has consisted of a little exploring and a lot of administrative formalities.  Rest assure, I did manage to make a few friends, grab a few beers, and try genuine Belgian fries.  I've been delighted with all of it--there's something about being a foreigner that makes the most mundane things fun.  I constantly think to myself I'm in freaking Europe and I can't wait to milk it for all it's worth.  Carpe Diem!  This is only the beginning