I wasn’t planning on visiting London twice, but it was very expensive to fly direct from Stockholm to Madrid and the first visit with my mom was a last-minute thing. I was able to re-visit some of the places I had seen with my mom before to take pictures freely and navigate the city a bit more easily.

I figured the lack of a language barrier was appealing enough, especially after not really knowing what was going on in so many cities before. The funny thing, though, is that I could hardly understand about 50 percent of the people. The pronunciation is so different that if it weren’t for maps, I would have gotten very lost with the directions people gave me. This is not even considering the Irish or other non-Brits where it is nearly as taxing having a conversation with them as in Spanish, especially because you are telling yourself this is English, why don’t you understand? But when someone refers to High Street as Eye Street, that can surely confuse you when you are trying to visualize the scene. And since when is lettuce rocket?

My first day I ended up doing a 20-mile walking tour, evading the 5 Pound ($10) Tube costs. The friend I was staying with lived a bit outside the city, but it was quite easy to walk around because of the Thames River Pathway. It runs along the river, connecting to the main parts of the city center and always has plenty of opportunities to people watch. The Grand Tour included: Tower Bridge (what people mistakenly refer to as the London Bridge…which was sold and re-constructed in Arizona…), the National Portrait Gallery, Leicester Square, Picadilly Circus, the Photographer’s Gallery, Covent Garden, the major shopping area of Oxford Street (which I discovered was the scene of a knifing the afternoon before), the huge lawn space full of pickup soccer games and rentable beach chairs in Hyde Park (not the park from 101 Dalmatians, though–that’s Regent Park), Albert Memorial (gorgeous surprise), Harrods, Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, and finally Westminster Abby, Big Ben/Parliament, and the Eye at sunset.

Most places I just walked around and tried to pickup the vibe of the area, but I did walk inside the famous (although I do not recall hearing of it before–perhaps in the movies?) British department store, Harrods. With a doorman out front, it seemed like a posh hotel, while an attendant in the bathroom (free perfume samples and mints, of course) hinted at a deluxe restaurant or theater. The detailed signs and themed rooms (e.g. Egypt for handbag collections) gave it a museum atmosphere. (The price tags may have as well been from a museum.) No detail was overlooked in the frivolously decorated, well-staffed (way more employees than customers) departments, ranging from food and bakery to shoes to jewelery and accessories to card shop. I am sure the major department store we visited in Japan was modeled off Harrods, but the Japanese had a cleaner style and didn’t apply quite have the same outlandish decadence. I imagine Philadelphia’s former Wanamaker’s would have been similar in its heyday.

Nearly forgetting that London was the scene and inspiration for the Harry Potter books, my second day I headed out to Oxford. There were a few moments of debate as to whether I should visit Cambridge (considering I am more of a science and engineering person, approaching the apply-to-grad-school point of my life), but I chose Oxford since it was extremely easy and affordable to get to. Once again, I went without a map or even knowing which stop to get off at but a few questions later, I was on my way.

Though the town is chock full of tourists, the students were still in classes and as a result a number of buildings were (rightfully so) closed off to the public. Per the advice of a gift shop cashier (who saw my bag from Japan and struck up a conversation with me), I found the little cafe Rowling wrote some of her books in and paid for a tour of the Divinity School and Bodleian Library, both of which have interesting little histories and were used in a few scenes in the Harry Potter movies. I missed the Great Hall of Christ College, though, that is the setting for the Great Hall in the films. There is a highly acknowledged elitist feel to the university and without actually visiting any of the colleges themselves, it makes it quite hard for me to imagine being a student there.

My last morning in London I finished up my Harry Potter tour by visiting King’s Cross station with Platform 9 and 3/4, and Leadenhall Market that was, according to the bookshop clerk, “dressed up” to be the scene for Diagon Alley. As a last hurrah for my love of markets, I traveled along the Northern Line to visit the Camden Markets and the Borough, both of which would have been unpleasantly crowded had it not been drizzly or a Thursday.

Even with all this activity, I must admit that London was not one of my favorite cities. There is something about British people that strikes me funny funny and bothers me. Is it that they feel un-genuine and constantly busy (they have some of the most, at least somewhat healthy, meals-on-the-go options)? Is it their Victorian ideals coming out as curt and petty? Is it the accents? Maybe it’s the overdone pub life that my cousin referred to as her “living room” when she was an au pair there? Or maybe I have tainted myself with an air of bitterness towards the 2:1 exchange rate? Regardless, if there is a next time for Europe for me, I will most likely head to the rolling green hills of the towns outside of London and avoid the city proper.

Both Stockholm and Gothenburg could have been anywhere USA. Seems hard to believe, but it was the first place I found a Target-like store (which seems like an indication of America to me). Restaurants, stores, the hodgepodge of architecture, and my favorite—BARBEQUES! (they used these handy, disposable aluminum pans with charcoal roasting beneath a wire rack)—were all reminiscent of the home I was so close to returning to. American TV and all-English channels were just as common as Swedish ones and that is mostly due to the large bilingual population that sometimes switches between languages mid-conversation. The word you say in Swedish when you see someone on the street is Hey! (though it is spelled hej in Swedish). They also claim to not have their own arts culture and as a result the majority of their music (Jack Johnson is huge) and movies are American or, perhaps, British. The love of Ikea, H&M clothing, Volvo, Pippi Longstocking and the Nobel Prize are all associated with Sweden. And it was as if I was home because I wasn’t stared at (maybe my 25% Swedish heritage was shining through).

But, Sweden does have its own attributes. Take the food. I tried Chocolate Chili ice cream, oodles of black licorice candy, cola chews, and salt-flavored or -coated gummies. I bet it’s all around the world, but I had never before seen anything but lemon water while here I found cucumber and orange slices floating in pitchers of water. New tastes included Honey Saffron ice cream, Flabar flowers (sorry, no one knew the translation) used in lemonade or refreshing sorbet, and one that I didn’t try, tubes of salty caviar (could be dill, lemon, or any other variety of flavors). The assortment of breads and rye crackers was pleasantly overwhelming to the omnipresent white bread and baguettes in Spain. The biggest shocker was the fact that traditional Swedish meatballs are eaten not with noodles, but with boiled potatoes, a cranberry-like sauce, and sweet pickles. For breakfast, we had a very soft flatbread and muesli with yogurt in an orange juice-like carton that is unscrewed and poured out.

While I was there I met uncharacteristic 26 degree (79 F) weather which was quite an assault to the long sleeve and blue jean wardrobe I had packed. In fact, while there I got my first sunburn—even after four months in Spain! This was the main reason why I waited to go to Sweden to visit my cousins (well, third cousins). One is a student in the university town of Gothenburg and the other works not too far from Stockholm, where we rendezvoused after short train rides on both our parts.

Considering I was visiting my cousin during classes at her school, much of the talk was about the similarities and differences between Swedish and American university. Her university reminded me of so many other schools I have been to in the US. Computer labs, library, separate buildings for all the departments, construction, and flyers everywhere. Adding in a third comparison, the universities I had seen in Spain and other countries were either historic sites or just not appreciated with the same respect as I am familiar with. These buildings looked like students lived here and spent most of their time studying (er, “studying”) in contrast to so many others that seemed to just be places for class and then you leave.

In Sweden, being one of the most utopian and advanced country of Europe (as you go south, claims my Spanish professor, things deteriorate), education is free and the government even gives a monthly subsidy to help cover housing and food. Dorm living is not nearly as popular abroad and Greek life does not exist, as far as we could tell. But her university (and perhaps others), have Societies to serve the fraternity/sorority role. Although they are more academic oriented for a specific major, they throw parties, have a similar recruitment process for the current members to “bid” on you, and informal initiation tasks in order to show your dedication to the society. Within a university building, each society has a “secret” room to hangout and store their stuff in, often furnished with a huge sofa and big screen TV. Picking up a flavor of Scouts, each society has a jumpsuit uniform that is worn whenever they gather and is decorated with patches from other societies they have worked with or for completing predetermined tasks. It is an honor to be a member and an excellent resume attribute, but also a huge time commitment.

We wandered the city and a huge park with a free zoo (that would never happen in the US). I learned about a pick-up baseball game Swedes like to play called Burning Ball, the influx of immigrants, and how Sweden is losing religion with the exception of the songs on the last day of school they sing. Really, it could have been anywhere in the US.

Stockholm had a similar American-vibe to Gothenburg, too, but not as strong. The hippie, organic, fair trade only population is thriving, as we saw in one market and somehow people in University of Michigan apparel were all over the city. I must have seen at least 5 people wearing hats or shirts. Maybe there was some sort of reunion? Were they Swedes or tourists? We were puzzled, but it was fun spotting them all over.

Like New York City, Stockholm has a few islands, one of which reminded me of Mackinac Island with its resort atmosphere, folk culture, and nation-renowned foods. It is mostly a national park area with trails and little restaurants to grab a snack, but at the entrance dock where the ferry drops you off is the complete antithesis to all the tranquility and nature, a tourist-ized amusement park. Eww.

I found the city of Stockholm to be quite dirty with trash and graffiti more present than I recall in any of the other cities I visited. There must have been something about the area by our hostal because I saw people peeing in the streets at least three times over the course of two days. This was both drunken peeing as well as a woman who dropped her pants in broad daylight. Bushes or on the side of the street, it didn’t matter. Granted, the shock-quality of public peeing could be due to my suburb-upbringing, but I cannot recall it being so prevalent in any other place.

Our hostal was literally floating, located in the lower cabins of a docked boat turned restaurant, so we got the smells, compact spaces, and movements of an old ship all weekend. Throughout the weekend my cousin and I kept having the sensation that the ground was rocking.

It was interesting interacting with the locals because my cousin is Swedish and obviously speaks the language, but I just have English. Sometimes it was assumed that I knew Swedish and other times people assumed she didn’t know Swedish. I would ask a question in English and they would struggle to get a clear response back until she intervened. It was always this odd mix of English and Swedish, no one ever sure which language to speak (since many Swedes know English) or how much anyone understood. Again, between my Spanish, English, and ability to read people there was quite a lot that I did understand without translation (I could even sound out some menu items).

Even after walking all over the old part of the city and seeing the changing of the guard, searching for restaurants to eat at, visiting a market and some shopping streets, as well as enjoying the views from the national park and a big rock hill, we still managed to have more time than we knew what to do with in Stockholm. We played cards (I learned a new favorite) and went to the movies (English with Swedish subtitles) because for some reason this was the only weekend in May that didn’t have any live shows.

Disregarding the currency confusion (because Swedish Krona prices seem 10 times larger than Euros or Dollars, even with a balanced exchange rate—e.g. 84 Kr for a sandwich), some new characters in the language, and traffic lights that went Green, Yellow, Red, Yellow, Green, I really felt like I could have been in the US. I just didn’t feel too culturally challenged, though I think being with my cousins shielded me a bit from that. If it weren’t for them, I would probably never have visited nor felt like I was missing out on too much. Then again, it is kind of interesting finding a place where you feel like you are at home when you are so far from it. To counter this normality, the next time I visit my cousins and I are going to go to the northern tip of the country to see the Northern Lights and visit the cities of the Midnight Sun Coast, where there is only 1 hour of daylight or 1 hour of night, depending on the season.

I haven’t written much about my classes (with the exception of those concerts) because they pale in comparison to my adventures as a tourist traveler. But, since the semester is over, I feel I can appropriately discuss them now. Some of my classes were taught by Spaniards so I was able to experience the “official” Spanish classroom setting and expectations, if not merely because they were reflecting the values and experiences they had as students.

I found that my Spanish teachers seemed to have low expectations of the students (enough so that they would often beg people to turn in assignments or do their homework instead of leaving them behind or failing them for not doing their work), but then they would grade extremely hard or proudly announce to the class how well we had all done and not give out a single A.

Exams were also a tell-me-everything-you-know style where we were given very broad, open-ended questions and then expected to write for the time given and hopefully say enough and the right things to get a good grade. So many times we would receive comments asking us to include things that we knew but just didn’t realized that was really what they were looking for. In contrast, the essay-type exams I have taken tend to force you to make a stance or state your opinion and develop some sort of driving thesis, often with comments to include dates, artworks, formulas, etc. as a hint of what specifics you should include or not in the short amount of time given. Being the purpose-driven person that I am, I was not particularly pleased with this form of examinations.

Naturally because my school was smaller, the class size was as well (average 10 people) and the dynamics were quite different. It is true that Spanish students do not feel inclined to participate in class as many Americans know they should even if they choose not to.

Overall, I realized how badly I need an intellectual environment to thrive. Without a challenge present, I lost the invigorating aspect of academia that I so love. I went to class mostly for entertainment and to fill the hours, rather than to walk away thinking about some new concept or way of approaching the world. Information did not seem unique to me, but rather a regurgitation of so many other sources before and therefore unimpressive. Exams were something that, if I studied enough for them, I could get a good grade. In comparison to many exams I have taken at Penn (or many other American universities) in which no amount of studying would have changed my grade. I noticed the difference in the values and thinking styles of my peers abroad and it made me appreciate even more the intellectual environment at Penn.

Despite my intense disdain for the high-stress environment at Penn, I still missed my classes there. It felt weird to not have that huge crescendo of assignments, exams, and things to do at the end of the semester, though I didn’t exactly miss that chaos. It almost felt more like high school.

I am not trying to sound like a pretentious academic (because I would hope you know I am far from that), but merely acknowledge the differences and expose my realization for the need of an intellectual classroom and community to do and feel my best; something that I was always told by others but never quite internalized to this extent. Some of my peers also commented on this lack of academic regality, so it was not just a contrast that I was experiencing.

Another thing I never thought twice about was having a good library.  Our school library was very small, leaving us with problems of study space and poor resource selection.  This was particularly problematic for a final paper that I had to do because there simply were not enough books to thumb through, and my teacher had to restrict us and lower her expectations.  Surely it’s not the same, but I can see a bit more clearly what is meant by the disadvantage of being an inadequately funded school.  I also adore libraries in general, so I felt a little bit empty without one.  No adventures into bookland to find something new to pique my interest.  Looking back, I should have taken the time to explore a Spanish library, but I never got to it.

I will admit, though, that as much as it may appear to be, this is most certainly not a complaint about the semester, considering how difficult it would be for me have had so many adventures with a heavy course load. Though I have lived in Philly for three years now, I still do not know it nearly as well as any other city I visited for only 36 hours and have never gone to NYC, Boston, or D.C. like I was so determined to do when I chose to go to school out here. In fact, I probably don’t even know Detroit as well, and I have lived there for nearly all my life! By the time I graduate next year, I am going to change all of that. (Hopefully putting this in words and publicly declaring this will keep me honest.)

Every possible scenario that could happen in a bullfight happened. A man got trampled and hurt and the matador did, too (though he just stood right up).  A bull wouldn’t get “mesmorized” by the cape so it couldn’t be killed in the fight and had to be herded off the field by these white with brown spots–he was malo or plain stupid with ADD-like tendencies.  (During this fight–because there are actually 6 within the event, 3 per matador–someone was so frustrated they threw a shoe in the middle, raising more controversy.)  People protested against the fights during a transition period (because half of Spain supports them and the other half thinks it’s low culture or cruel) and were swooped away by the police.  A new matador also won his first ear and paraded around the circumference to wave and blow kisses at his adoring fans who threw fans and hankies that he would retrieve and throw back.  (This honor is granted by the approval of the crowd via standing ovation or waving white hankies. )

Thanks to the help of the Spanish man I sat next to, I was able to understand a lot more. That, and studying the tradition with all its corresponding controversies, made me really appreciate the event. I wasn’t expecting I would like it (it does come with a lot of blood and brutality) and only went because my dad encouraged me to do so, but at the end of the day (well, semester) I would go back.  They are dirt cheap, too, so that’s all the better.  In fact, there are also bullflights in South America that I would love to see when I get down there to hear “good” Spainsh…someday.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there was a little boy and a little girl. He lived in building #15, she in #12. Just around the corner from the bottom of their street, they both went through all their years of school before entering university and when they would later have children they, too, would attend this school. A block from the top of the street was their church and a bit further down, their post office. The park he spent hours running around in and she not as many, surrounded them on all sides except the East because that’s where the department stores and other little shops resided. A few minute walk to within that metropolitan area was a passage to the rest of the world. The carcenería, panadería, pharmacy, caf’é, bar, and alimentation store were also quite near, but with a little bit longer than that 2 minute walk there were plenty more choices. With everything so close to home, oh what a perfect place to live.

This land, of course, is Madrid and the two children are my host-mom and -dad. They really do have everything they need and use within a two block radius of their houses, granted that’s not saying too much because it is city living. As always seems to happen, they didn’t meet each other until after living over 10 years just a few doors apart and then it was another few years until they started dating.

The funniest part is that we are currently living in #15 where he grew up with his 15 brothers and sisters, though half of the flat was walled off and sold as kids moved out. In Spain, a large portion of the population lives with their family until they get married at around 26-30 years old, so it is not entirely remarkable that we have the same place.

This ‘passageway’ is the most connected Metro stop in Madrid, Moncloa, which gets me to the airport with one transfer and I can get back to it from practically any other site in the city. If I wanted to opt for the bus, at the bottom of the street is a stop on the most popular line that they use so often that they call it their ‘taxi.’

Unfortunately, though, the household is not such a happy, fairytale place. The four of them have no respect for each other and can hardly talk for 30 seconds before starting some sort of yelling fit. They don’t listen to each other and constantly complain or order the others around. There is no such thing as a constructive conversation and it makes it incredibly uncomfortable for the three of us to be in the middle of it. He insists he is always right and will correct any one of us for faulting, even at times telling us we don’t speak English properly. There is no personal sacrifice to make things easier for everyone else, the perfect example being the broken dishwasher that he didn’t have time to fix until the end of the week, but still managed to get to bed plenty early with some late-night sitcoms to rock him to sleep, leaving the daughter and wife in the kitchen scrubbing dishes. These remnenants of machismo may be cultural and are only aggravated by having two teenage children, but I have certainly heard of and met other families here where this is not such a problem.

Despite having the best of intentions, nothing gets done in a timely manner and things are forgotten about and blamed on all the rest of us. I know everyone is entitled to disagreements and skirmishes, but this really is of a different, dysfunctional caliber. At least they have now taken two mini-vacations to el campo and their families’ pueblos leaving us in peace and quiet for a few days like this weekend.

I’ve been running into problems with having too high of expectations for events, so I was trying really hard to not get too excited about the Nigel Kennedy (my favorite violinist) concert–especially after the hassle I had to go through to get the tickets (let’s just say they were supposedly sold out before I knew they were even on sale and when I frantically tried to get a ticket, I was turned away for not having a Spanish credit card–the only means of paying). Plus, the ticket was quite expensive and for nearly a fraction of the price I have seen some excellent concerts abroad, so I was feeling a bit of buyer’s remorse. But–thank goodness–I was not let down.  I usually go to a concert for the acoustics, so I come with a book or blank paper to write because the live atmosphere is so stimulating. It might seem weird or even offensive to the players, but I can say that my old viola teacher (who plays for the Detroit Symphony Orchestra) told me that musicians consider it a complement when people fall asleep at their concerts–so I can’t be that bad. Though I was armed with my Spanish textbook, it stayed tucked away in my bag because tonight there was something to see.

The hall itself was interestingly designed with these pop-out risers on the stage and 360-seating. I took advantage of the unique opportunity and sat by the organ in one of the sections on the backwall behind the orchestra. Though it meant I got the back of his head for much of the time, I did get a good view of the orchestra’s open, strappy backs (including a giant shoulder/back tattoo of a second violinist) that in all its unconservative-ness would only be acceptable in Madrid.

Part of the reason I like Kennedy so much is for his unique interpretations of classical music, which tends to be a bit paradoxical because there is supposed to be a “right” and “wrong” in classical music, one way that everyone strives to perform and record. He ignores this tradition completely and makes the music his own creation, leaving his mark with every note. He added accents and swells, put in exuberant vibrato, cut notes off a hair early, and sprinkled little hesitations all around.

It’s the same black notes and scribbles everyone else plays but he does his decorations and techniques slightly–but not too subtly–differently so you know it was stylistically intentional. (At this concert, though, I am pretty sure there were times when he improvised in his own harmonies and may even have wrote ahead of time extra cadenza accompaniment for the orchestra. I swear that was not in the recordings. Can he be playing the same music?)

But how can someone who doesn’t play this canonized way in such a strict field be so revered, you ask? It’s all in the personality, that’s how.

For him, music is fun. When the melody was in the next bar, he might stop for a half-second and put on this mischievous little boy face–the one you wear when you should be getting in trouble for something but know you are going to get away with it–before proceeding. If you are familiar with the song, you will hear the notes going in your head, but the orchestra is silent as if the record player slipped and you are left naked with your mental shower-singing voice. But even if you didn’t know the piece, you would know that something was up and to listen well because music doesn’t just come to a screeching, semi-four truck halt like that. As I see it, he is essentially making classical music more accessible and for today’s people (especially youngin’s like myself who may be turned off to the stuff, though there were hardly any of us in the audience).

It makes sense with all his play in his musical interpretations that he would have a similar personality and it shines through in his gestures. After each piece he shook his fist in the air and rooted for the audience as if we had done all the work. When he played, he gestured and cued with such intimacy it was as if he was with a 100-member quartet. Even without seeing a rehearsal, you could tell that he was like a mentor to the orchestra instead of a dictator. He joked with them (and the audience) so everyone was with high anticipation of what will happen next and he gave lots of enthusiastic thumbs-up. When he walked off the stage while we were applauding, he reached over to unsuspecting orchestra members he passed by to give them knuckle-knocking high fives and would wait until they embarrassingly complied. After the timpanist played his solo opening notes of the second piece, Nigel made a fist and hit his chest to show that the timpanist had just captured his heart. There was something about the principal cellist, too, as he kissed her hand a few times and gave his bouquet to her, too.

He did everything he wasn’t supposed to do. Since it was a concerto concert, he wasn’t supposed to conduct the orchestra at the same time, but he schooched around the would-have-been podium area motioning to the sections and managed to play the first violin parts when he would otherwise have been resting. He wasn’t supposed to wear what looked like black silk PJs and combat boots (one pant leg tucked in) with spiked hair, reminiscent of the punk rock 20-something that he certainly is not. There was no microphone setup on stage because he wasn’t supposed to say anything, but he spoke loudly and slowly to the Spanish audience in his British-English, telling jokes about mind reading (”I bet I can pick three people in the audience and tell you all whether they washed their hair today.”–one was bald). He was supposed to play 2 pieces–not 5–but acknowledged to us before a note was played he knew our tickets were expensive so he didn’t want to “cheat” us.

It was outside the programmed pieces that the “real” music came, though. Conducted like a Jam Session complete with the yelling out of numbers and wandering around the audience and entire stage, he played the gypsy piece Czardas and “the only song written by the famous composer James Marshall Hendrix–it was for the better” Purple Haze for encore pieces. Keeping in line with his humor, he played a romantic little duet with the harpsichordist, had a duel with the concert master while both were playing nearly-screeching high harmonic notes, and sneaked up on a day-dreaming first violinist to dedicate a few juicy notes to her as she jumped in her chair. Though the clarinetist didn’t speak English and had rests for nearly the entire piece, Kennedy asked him while his hands were up to start the song if he was “going to play–there’s some music on your stand there, right?” The poor guy, realizing he was on the spotlight, gave a confused look and rustled around his music while Kennedy grinned and started the piece. To finish off the show, while still shaking their bows on the last chord the entire orchestra just stood up and started walking off stage–cellos included.

With this jolly, cute-old man personality he is enchanting and 100% contagious. So much so that I would want to start drinking just so I could go out and have a drink with him. He made a performance out of the night that was beyond my artificially suppressed expectations. I really don’t know who else would get away with such silly behavior in the un-silly world of classical music.

If you are interested, my favorite CD of his is Classic Kennedy. Unfortunately, I do not think he tours much in the US or else I would highly recommend seeing him. So much for paying tribute to the country that gave him his Juilliard training.