Monthly Archives: February 2016

The Breathtaking Island

Blog Post

I stepped off the plane in Ponta Delgada just as green as the magnificent island around me. I had come for adventure and experience, to live the life of a pre-med student abroad, shadowing doctors in a hospital in the Azores. In the weeks prior to arriving, I was savoring the vision I had conjured in my head. I had just finished my second semester of accelerated Portuguese and was ready to speak with the staff I was scheduled to follow. On top of that, I would be staying on the beautiful island of São Miguel, largest of the nine islands in the archipelago. I was the youngest of my fellowship group and despite my enthusiasm; I still had much to learn. I was there to learn from the medical professionals, but in the end the greatest lessons I learned came from outside the hospital.

The program ensured we were getting the most of our experience by taking us on excursions, not only to see the incredible views, but to also immerse ourselves in the local culture. We went on daytrips to every part of São Miguel. Each beach had its own geological signature: large black volcanic rocks, fine black powder, large gray stones, red rich earth, and yellow-white sand. We ventured up to the highest peak in São Miguel in our vehicle, and walked over to the cellular tower. At this altitude, I could look down and see the blue hydrangeas dividing properties and outlining roadways. I could see the Azorean cows eating the green grass and the rooftops of the cities. I could hear the birds rustling in the thickets around me. I took a deep breath as I took in the surroundings and cough cough. I inhaled a cloud of smoke. Cigarette smoke. It wafts across the entire island. The economy of São Miguel is sustained by eco-tourism, and its inhabitants’ favorite pastime, next to enjoying the scenery, is having a smoke.

No two places we visited looked the same, but no matter where we trekked, the smell lingered. In fact, the smoking culture is so prevalent that the modern hospital in Ponta Delgada, home to several hyperbaric chambers and helicopter-units, and prepared for deep sea and cliff diving accidents, has smoking corridors. The fountains in church courtyards are wet ashtrays. The beautiful forests, lakes, beaches, gardens, footpaths, all smell like something gray.

I had been programmed to be disgusted. No aspiring medical professional in 2014 thinks that cigarettes are good for one’s health. Regardless of career trajectory, most adults in the United States do not like being confronted with the smell of cigarettes. Cigarette smoking has significantly decreased, and its presence in pop culture no longer has that sexy, cool appeal; rather it triggers instant revulsion. How could I love this place and its people if it smells of ash?

My student group had been brought to a particular plaza to watch a local parade that celebrated the island’s heritage. Our tour guide pointed out the best spot along the main road with his yellow-stained fingers. The floats were made by hand; people decorated the backs of their trucks with small scenes illustrating the local color: the fishing industry, tea production, and agriculture. Herds of regally dressed oxen passed us as we sat on the curb. A flatbed truck was converted into a bar and pulled in front of our spot. A dozen nozzles connected to a tap dispensed Azorean beer into clear plastic cups and traditionally dressed men distributed the beer among the spectators. Dancing girls with baskets of sweet bread waltzed by, followed closely by their mothers pouring wine. The food and drink were exceptional. I could feel the locals’ island pride from start to finish.

I had come to São Miguel with an idyllic image of my summer, a balance of adventure in an unspoiled paradise and the academic recognition of an internship. I had framed a picture in my head based on what I had seen online; only to be turned off by the sense I did not see coming, smell. There was so much more though, than just smell. When I opened my assessment to a holistic perspective, taking in all of my sensory input, the locals were generous and loving, proud of their home and their accomplishments. The parade showed me I should pay no attention to what my nose told me, but to open my eyes to the people who lived there and their culture.

 

*Edited Version: 2/29/16

Where Milbank Turns into Whitehall

Blog Post

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Straight up Milbank until it turns into Whitehall. Pass Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, and then continue right on to Trafalgar Square. I repeated the directions under my breath a few more times before closing the student travel guide I had bought four years earlier when I dreamt of traveling this independently. Straight up Milbank until it turns into Whitehall—I memorized the directions in parts as I moved from one sight to another, hoping to get as far as the National Gallery and British Museum. Straight up Milbank until it turns into—Or not.

As Milbank turned into Whitehall, I came face to face with several police officers directing crowds of tourists around barricades to surrounding streets or narrow stretches of sidewalk. I had heard on the news while leaving my friend’s dorm that morning that Britain had just elected a new Prime Minister. So, as I wound my way around the maze of barricades, I assumed they were there because the PM was about to arrive at 10 Downing Street. Excited to see a bit of British government, a distant idea from high school history classes turned physical reality here in the heart of London, I parked myself between a few reporters and their camera crews and some students who looked just as curious as I surely did. Since I was alone and eager to make new acquaintances, I introduced myself to the other students and we each offered our best guesses at what might be happening—was the Prime Minister coming, would we see the Queen? Luckily, a real Londoner overheard our wild speculations and explained that there was about to be a parade in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of VE Day.

Well that certainly had not crossed my mind. The search results that my memory displayed when I thought “VE Day” included photographs of couples kissing in Times Square. As far as World War II related anniversaries went, Pearl Harbor Day was the closest my American brain could come to understanding what VE Day meant. If I pushed beyond the memory of World War II, I could imagine memorials in honor of 9/11 or Independence Day celebrations, but no kind of recent recognition of a war finally won.

And so, I clung to the barriers as Londoners and tourists crowded together—my plans for the day completely forgotten. As the Royal Guard marched in, I balanced on my toes to take in the scene. Two tall men to my right pointed out members of the royal family and the reporter in front of me announced the arriving members of government. At last, the mass of strangers broke out in a round of applause as World War II veterans joined the scene. Small British flags and parade programs were passed around, and I gladly accepted both—knowing that no one would recognize me to remind me of my own nationality, and wanting very much to look like a Brit in the midst of so much national pride.

Joining in the national anthem, I imagined myself a European of the 1940s—or at least the grandchild of one. I listened in awe as Winston Churchill’s grandson read an excerpt of his grandfather’s original victory speech, and watched as members of the royal family—descendants of the people who had led their country through that dark patch of history—laid wreaths of remembrance. Though they spoke my language, there was something just different enough about these people. A bus had nearly run over my toes earlier that day when I looked the wrong way while crossing the street, and I quickly learned that if I wanted to comprehend what England meant for the English or what World War II meant to Europe, I needed to look right and then left, pretend that Randolph Churchill was just another countryman, suspend my own identity, and wave a flag that was not my own.

Taking in the people around me, I noticed a solitary man a few rows behind me holding a handwritten sign that read, Thank you heroes of WW2 who defeated Nazism. At first glance, his sign reminded me of the pick-up trucks back home that sported yellow “God bless our troops” bumper stickers. But, remembering where I was, I realized that he had probably lived through the Blitz, had maybe even survived a concentration camp or fought in the war himself. Nazis weren’t villains from The Sound of Music here, but actual men who dropped bombs on English homes. As the national anthem came to a close, an elderly couple in the crowd called out to him, thanking him for holding up the sign. The man nodded humbly. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them. If only for just that moment, where Milbank turns into Whitehall, I gave myself over to a different culture and shared in its solidarity.