23 Days

Life in Europe had been extraordinarily eventful for the next 23 days since I my arrival. To pick up where I left off, I arrived at Kasteel Well closer to 10 p.m., after spending a near fortune on a cab ride that could not be overturned. I had been informed that a ride directly to the castle would cost $100, but it ended up costing closer to $400, a matter I never did bring to the attention of the Study Abroad Program Director upon my return to the college in the fall.

The castle was not as tall as was pictured in the brochures, but immensely gratifying in its grandeur. I kept expecting Shrek to appear in front of me, but he never did. Instead, the cuckoo bird living in the tree that branched over the moat serenaded me. Upon opening the door to the dormitory, I quickly realized that the grounds of the castle would be its aesthetic highlight. I was given a single room, normally a Resident Assistant’s room, which was adjacent to the entry door of the dormitory. Each time a student strolled into her room, this door would bang shut and wake me during the middle of the night. I was privileged to get my own sink, unlike most of the other twelve students residing with me at the castle, but we all shared the two showers across from my room.

The morning following my lengthy travel to the castle, I realized I had slept better than I had in a very long time. This was short-lived following the first excursion on Thursday, a Netherlands holiday and a day off from our studies. Stocking up on both soft and hard drugs on a visit to Amsterdam, the remaining days and nights were uneasy with the bulk of students being irresponsible and consistently high. There were a few exceptions, but these four students had their own issues, such as being high maintenance personalities. I suddenly drifted back to grade school memories in the company of these juveniles.

Desperate for companionship with someone my age, I turned to the staff at the castle. Two Resident Coordinators, who were younger than me, but older than my fellow Castle Dwellers, gave little to my feeling enriched in conversation. They both had limited English skills, along with having a Dutch mentality, which was completely liberal and somewhat lazy-minded. The Academic Coordinator, Chester, was a very petite Chinese man who turned out to be my closest confidante, especially on excursions when we would be the first up for morning coffee in the hotel lounge. Our friendship began on our first excursion related to our studies, in Bruges, Belgium. Chester remained with our group, along with our teacher and the Director of the Program, Dulcia.

Dulcia is one of the most intelligent, well-rounded, liberal women I’ve ever met in my life. This is not to say that I honestly adore her, like most of the students. In fact, when I first met her at the castle, I thought she might be a vampire. She has teeth that seem too big for her mouth, and her eyeteeth protrude. I admire her for her work and the life she’s built for herself, but there is something edgy in her strictness of teaching that I do not appreciate. An example of this unappreciated teaching skill was her announcement of reading presentations. She wanted to be sure all students read the material given to them, but I found this insulting when I was instantly called to present without warning. The remaining presentations were assigned and the students given time to prepare. I was not, and I am sure this will affect my grade. A constant thought filled my mind in relation to the reading, which was that we all paid $5,300, plus airfare and expenses, to participate in the study program. If anyone chose not to read, they would forfeit a lot of money for partying privileges.

Three days into my European adventure, I rented a bike from a shop around the corner from the castle. The man who owned the shop looked like Gepetto from "Pinocchio," and the bike looked as if it were taken from the set of "The Sound of Music." I rented my bike for one month. Netherlanders ride bikes a lot. Biking is easier on the flat land, and life is peaceful and easygoing in Well, as long as you disregard the Brothels you pass every half mile. Each night for dinner, our group would ride bikes about two miles past the castle to the restaurant assigned to cook our dinner. We would drink wine, eat freshly baked bread, and wonder what strange meal would be served to us next. That was when I ate Schnitzel for the first time. It was actually pretty tasty, but later, I claimed to be a vegetarian, after twice being served baseball-sized globs of boar meat. Ok, so now I eat fish!

Every other morning, I took a run alongside a serene river, on a bike route, past horses grazing in the morning light and vast amounts of farmland with budding produce.

The architecture of Bruges was breathtaking in its medieval structure, but what I most enjoyed, aside from the waffles, was the fact that I had a private room in the hotel. I still heard the students late at night, but not as intrusively as I had at the castle. My focus was on taking as many photographs of Bruges as was physically possible, and I succeeded in doing so. Leaving Bruges was a little sad for me, as I was not looking forward to going back to the castle. My mindset had changed from feeling uncomfortable and a little irritated, to feeling like I was in a prison, yet experiencing Europe at the same time.

Our next excursion was a few days later, upon our return from Bruges. It was time to compare Bruges to Venice, Italy during the Renaissance period. It was also my first experience on an overnight train, which proved to be immensely difficult for me — sleeping in a six-person couchette with strangers who smelled funny.

Curse of the Cosmopolitan

One year prior, I had no attachments. My study abroad plan for my fall semester at Emerson was approaching at a snail’s pace — until I met Andrew. Then, when I turned over in my bed, I faced Andrew and my four-carat diamond ring, both reminders of the commitment I’d made.

Sometime around March, the thought of leaving the country for fifteen weeks became overwhelming. Not only was I leaving my twelve-year-old son, Jake, but I was also breaking up the family we were evolving into. When Emerson introduced a summer study abroad program, I immediately transferred into this five-week program. To make up for the countries I would have missed visiting, Andrew and I planned to meet in Paris at the close of my program and take a twelve-day honeymoon cruise from Venice to Barcelona. With this revised plan, I felt a huge burden of guilt lifted from my thoughts – until the week before I left.

I felt like I’d been slapped in the face with guilt over leaving my son. When Jake went away with his dad for a weeklong cruise, we missed each other. Shortly after he was back from his cruise, he participated in “Nature’s Classroom,” a school program involving a week away. Again, we missed each other. For the third time in the past month, we had to say goodbye as I left for my study abroad program. I left behind my fiancé, my son, and my diamond ring so that I could fulfill my dream of participating in a European study program. I would stay in a medieval castle in The Netherlands in between group trips to Bruges and Venice.

All of the above sounded great the year before I left – even two months before, but the week before my departure, I began having crying jags in response to the guilt and stress of my pending trip. Although Andrew didn’t seem to understand, Jake did. Unfortunately, Andrew and I were going through a difficult transition as he had just moved in with me. Having been on our own for so long, there were kinks that needed to be worked out before we could cohabitate peacefully. Of course, both of us having colds and feeling rundown did not help, but somehow we managed to put our issues behind us by the time I left.

Following a tearful goodbye to my son, I discovered my flight was delayed. As I sat crouched on the airport floor waiting to board, I experienced exactly three fleeting moments of wanting to grab a taxi and head back home. Looking into my goodie bag Andrew gave me, I noticed the unopened letter he had written me. I decided to read the letter and let it’s contents decide my fate. Each word in the letter assured me that I must follow the path I’ve created.

“It’s okay to be scared of the unknown, to be unsettled in leaving your loved ones … What you’ve built at home will grow stronger in your absence … Be that girl you pictured walking the streets of Paris …”

Still recuperating from Bronchitis and several sleepless nights, I boarded the plane and settled into my seat on the plane. After a long, cramped, red-eye flight, I arrived at my stopover in Paris -- covered in black ink from a pen that exploded on me in mid-air, and realizing my connecting flight had already departed for Amsterdam. With no other logical option, I accepted my lunch coupon and waited the six hours for the next available flight.

Wanting a decent cup of coffee that I hadn’t received on my flight, I headed for the airport café. In the midst of an incredible amount of second hand smoke that alerted my bronchial tubes, I was served a very small cup of coffee. I noticed that although there was a breakfast menu, nobody was eating — just drinking small cups of coffee and chain smoking. As I headed to the next café, the coffee cup got smaller, but I insisted on ordering a croissant, regardless of the odd look from the waiter. Suddenly, I’m missing Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve decided to deal with the jet lag while I’m wasting time at the airport. Although my inner time clock is feeling 6 a.m., I’m forcing myself to have lunch. I arrive at a café and order bread, tomato and cheese with a bottle of San Pellegrino. A man from Amsterdam sits next to me, turns, looks at my plate and says, “What you ordered would be best with a glass of red wine — to complement it, you know?” Of course, he didn’t know that it was 7 a.m. for me. Ordering wine was out of the question. Besides, one glass would have put me to sleep.

Instead of arriving at the castle at 2 p.m., I would get to Well around 8 p.m., just in time for bed. By then, I should be tired enough to beat the jet lag and start fresh for Saturday’s 10 a.m. orientation program.

My-o myofascial

"Myofascial" is medically defined as "of or relating to the fascia surrounding and separating muscle tissue," where "fascia" is "a sheet or band of fibrous connective tissue enveloping, separating or binding together muscles, organs and other soft structures of the body."

Out of Bodywork Energy & Wellness, licensed massage therapist Debi Blaisdell specializes in myofascial release massage, to which I was first introduced to a few months earlier at Whole Foods.

Among a series of holistic offerings, Whole Foods occasionally hosts $1-per-minute chair massages performed by licensed massage therapists of the North Shore. As a regular customer of the store's fish department, I noticed the massage chairs at the checkout area, quickly removed $5 from my wallet and bought myself five minutes of increased blood flow.

Five minutes left me wanting more, and I succumbed.

When I met Debi at the front door of her sister's business, she led me into one of three rooms. Bamboo shades blocked out the sunlight, a black-and-white photo of a bonsai tree hung on the sage-colored wall, and candles were the only light source. Instant relaxation.

In an easy-to-understand assertion, she enlightened me to the benefits of a regular myofascial release. Myofascial, like most massage treatments, is about healing the body's system from under the skin. Like Saran Wrap, muscles become bunched up, and Debi's job is to slowly move the fascia to iron out the wrinkles.

"Like a stick of butter that liquefies," she analogized.

The gentle, profound work in a myofascial release massage is often mixed with energy work and Swedish and deep-tissue massage, depending on the needs of the individual.

I guessed my sore muscles would require all of the above.

Ready to begin, she instructed me to "get down to my comfort level" and lie in a supine position on the heated table. New age music played in the background.

"It's healing music," she explained.

My session began with an incorporation of energy work and myofascial release. With my eyes closed, I relished the attention given to my scalp. Hands cupped my head, fingers gradually settled in specific locations at my temples and the hairline of my neck. (I was later told my energy's creative field was so entertaining, she didn't want to leave my swirling crown.)

Most of my energy, to my surprise, arrested in my head.

Debi's gentle touch, through a combination of stretching and deep stroking, lasted through half the session, releasing most of my blockages.

Now, I usually do not enjoy a tender-touch massage, but there was something soothing and productive about this particular one. All of a sudden I felt my arm elongating. What felt like a contraction was a release of my blockages. I can only imagine that my nervous system, if I could identify it, quieted.

I was later told that everyone experiences a unique release. Some people feel waves while their muscles release, others feel an extreme temperature change, while some even cry. It all depends on a person's body and how they're feeling.

Although I hadn't been aware of this, she told me that my hands were doing funky waves during a release on my wrist. She claimed to have no participation in the motion, stating she was the guide encouraging it to go to the place it needed to be.

In the midst of the motion, I suddenly experienced a foot cramp and a slight headache. Toxins were releasing, and I could feel it.

Just when I thought my therapeutic time was nearing an end, I heard the lotion pump and knew the best was yet to come. With every rub of rhythmic turbulence and push of my pressure points, she took a deep breath and I followed. I was receptive to her energy and decided to go with the flow.

Fortunately, I did not end up crying on the table when my fascias were released, but I did have thoughts of urgently emptying my bladder.

The next day, I could actually feel the results. What felt like bruises on my arm were knots come undone, but most significant was the enhanced range of motion I experienced in my neck. And my wrists did feel better after the surf they rode.

Debi checked in with me the following day and told me to focus on thoughts of releasing any tightness I might experience in the next few days. My body should automatically release, she said, based on muscle memory. Nice. The massage benefits continue.

I'm not surprised that two energies can cause quite a stir in certain situations, but I was more than satisfied that Debi knew what she was doing. Through our energy, we created a bond that will last forever.

Myth of the Greek cookie

During the course of my childhood, my mother's Greek cookies were connected with every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas menu, particularly during breakfast — and washed down with orange juice. Today, not much has changed, except that my sisters and I have families and homes of our own. We no longer watch my mother braiding and baking the cookies, and we don't smell them as they bake. We do, however, still get the cookies. And plenty of them.

Each holiday, my mother arrives holding an oversized tray of her traditional cookies. In fact, each member of my family has become accustomed to eating one before they're placed on the holiday table. Before she can take her coat off, the tray is uncovered, emitting an aroma that floods our senses with memories of our youth.

Two Christmases ago, my sisters and I convinced my mother it was time to hand down her 43-year-old secret recipe. Both of my sisters tried unsuccessfully in duplicating the braiding technique of these traditional cookies, but to the amazement of my family — and myself — I was able to successfully recreate her recipe.

Just to let you know, there are many variations of the Greek cookie. Over the summer I spent in Europe, I visited Greece and found cookies that looked like my mother's. They were braided with sesame seeds, although shaped in a circle instead of a log (see photo above). I bought one on a street corner in downtown Athens, and when I took my first bite, I realized that although they tasted similar to my mother's, they had a different texture. Upon calling my mother — collect from Greece — she insisted that I find out the exact name of the cookie so that she could compare recipes.

When I returned from Greece, I sat down with my mother and asked her to explain herself in regard to her traditional cookies. She explained that she liked her recipe, as opposed to Koulouria, which is a bread ring — not really a cookie.

In the spirit of sharing and spilling secrets, I'd like to pass along my mother's traditional Greek Butter Cookie recipe.

Today, my mother continues to bake her three batches of Greek cookies for each holiday so that each of our families can take some home — but now there are no more secrets.

GREEK BUTTER COOKIES
1 cup butter
1-½ cups sugar
3 eggs
½ cup orange juice
Sesame seeds
6 cups flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 beaten egg mixed with 1 tablespoon milk
Cream butter. Add sugar gradually. Add eggs one at a time, alternately with orange juice. Add flour that has been sifted with soda and baking powder, a little bit at a time. Should be a soft dough. Shape as desired and brush with egg and milk mixture. The traditional Greek Cookie is two small strands of dough twisted together, brushed with egg and milk mix and sprinkled with sesame seeds.

Bake on greased cookie sheet for 15-20 minutes at 350 degrees.

By-product of Wanderlust

Wanderlust has always been a central theme of my being. Beginning at the age of nine, my father subscribed me to the Weekly Reader’s Book Club. Each weekend I could be found in my room, reading book after book of mysteries. I began to identify with and aspire to be the main character — someone who would ultimately find adventure while traveling out of state.

As I entered my teen years I began to envision myself as an adult, living on my own in California — warmer weather and life filled with excitement in a celebrity-filled area. With no direction from either of my divorced parents, this dream remained just that. I had no idea that I could somehow make my vision a reality.

I married a man who wanted to fulfill all of my dreams, especially my dreams of traveling. We barely said, “I do” before we flew to Los Angeles, where I instantly dismissed any possibility of living in an area that I could barely breathe in.

Sobered in the reality of California, my thoughts turned to North Carolina. “This has to be the place for me,” I thought. “A warmer climate, mountains, and a coastline – not to mention some of the best schools in the Triangle area, this is where I’d like to raise a family.” Leaving family behind meant more to my husband than it did to me; ultimately, I got a vacation in North Carolina, but no future in living there. Any future thoughts of travel were put on the backburner, as I started a family and established my roots in New England.

Twelve years later and divorced, I began to feel an eagerness to travel further than the U.S. and the Caribbean during my son’s school vacations. With European travel in mind, I embarked on my study abroad program as part of a select group.

Although the experience proved rewarding, it was bittersweet for me, because ironically, I suffered from a severe case of homesickness. Yearning to travel since a child, I had not entertained the idea of missing my loved ones. Through all of my daydreaming about living in exotic locations, I have finally realized that travel is temporary, and you live where your loved ones are.

There’ll always be Paris

While traveling through Europe, my first spa experience happened in Paris, exactly where I intended it to be. My thoughts were that I would partake in a heavenly rite of passage. As I scoured the streets in search of a nail salon, I realized they are not even called salons, but institutes; a salon is a place where you ordered a sandwich. The first one I ran across, I entered. I wanted the works: a manicure, pedicure, facial and massage.

The woman who greeted me at the door could not speak English; my initial attempt to communicate with her on my bodily needs did not go over so well. Enduring much frustration, we finally made an appointment, and I returned later that day.

I was led to a table and ordered to lie down. Hmmm, I wondered. What was a table to do with a pedicure and manicure, of which I understood, perhaps wrongly, that I would receive first? Maybe I was being chastised for requesting a French manicure while in France. Maybe she didn’t like the pun intended.

A heated table was the point at which the esthetician first waxed my toe hairs. Huh?! This was a first. The massage and facial included no rub down, just globs of assorted creams and lotions applied. The manicure and pedicure was nothing to write home about, but at least I was groomed to go.

A Caribbean trip assures year-round warm weather, beaches and calypso music. But once in a while, a welcome change of pace calls for a vacation where beaches and pool areas aren’t overcrowded with chattering guests and the constant clang of steel drums. My goal was to discover a destination of peace and warmth.

As my plane broke through a field of dark clouds, I glanced out the window at bright terracotta-roofed houses and sprinkles of lush, green-carpeted hills below. Moments before, my plane had flown through a darkened sky and dropped into a series of deep, downhill swoops. I heard the pilot announce he was unable to fly into Nevis, the tiny island southeast of our departure in Puerto Rico, and our scheduled first stop. We made an emergency landing further south, in Antigua, which thankfully, was my destination.

Antigua is the largest of the British Leeward Islands in the eastern Caribbean, with an average temperature of 80 degrees throughout the year and 365 white sand beaches—enough for a daily visit during the course of one year—with a day off for leap year.

Since 1981, formerly British-owned Antigua and its sister island, Barbuda, have experienced independent status as associated States of the Commonwealth. Annual celebrations for locals and visitors are hosted in historical Nelson’s Dockyard on the English Harbour, and include bridge tournaments, yacht races and golf tournaments. April is Antigua’s annual sail week, also held on the English Harbour, a place of historical re-enactments and lively entertainment.

Carlisle Bay is located on the southern tip of the English-speaking island, nestled between curved hills of uninhabited land, mangrove swamps, and the Caribbean Sea. The area’s exquisite natural surroundings exude seclusion, a welcome atmosphere for some pampered down time and enough distance from the busyness of daily life.

Exhausted, I arrived at the Carlisle Bay Resort to be greeted by a friendly staff member who immediately handed me a complimentary Antigua Smile cocktail to quench my thirst. I was then escorted along Carlisle Bay resort’s narrow path between the Caribbean Sea’s beachfront and a string of elegant white cottages, and landed in front of a door framed in a vine of hot pink and purple bougainvillea. A perfectly intact watermelon-sized, coral conch shell lay on the floor beside my doorway. As I sipped my cocktail and glanced back and forth from the sea and my suite entrance, I decided the shell had to be a signature of an oceanfront suite.

As I further examined my surroundings, the white Hampton-style steps led my view to the second floor suites—a successful strategy in spacing guests with the added effect of solitude. Although many families were registered during my stay, I barely heard any children. The soundproofing may have been due to the encased glass walls of the children’s playroom and the internet-equipped library, the open-air structure and cathedral ceilings in the dining rooms and lobby, the winding flora and fauna trails spaciously separating the foot traffic, or the combined effect of all factors.

Indulge in a Spa Treatment
In an effort to wind down during my second day on the island, I decided a visit to the hotel spa was in order. I chose a Swedish massage with Dale, the newest staff member at The Blue Spa. I was in good hands with this brawny masseur. He didn’t hold back on his use of oil, and just when I thought my massage was over, he headed to the foot of the table and performed ten minutes of reflexology on each foot. His precise technique of kneading a specific area of my foot triggered my digestive system to an audible growl and my state of mind to pure relaxation. At the end of my session, I wandered harmoniously along the sound of the waves and back to my room before dinner.

Fine Dining
Open to the general public, Carlisle Bay Resort is host to Asian restaurant, East. Decorated in retro-Asian red chairs and scattered palm trees in an open-air room, East cooking fuses Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, and Indian dishes. Thai chef Athiwath Kinla takes great pride in the décor of the restaurant; in fact, he personally selected the serving plates from Spain and Germany.

A chef for eighteen years, Kinla learned to prepare Vietnamese dishes in his home city, Kakhon Phanom, Thailand, which borders Vietnam. Kinla prefers the rich sophistication of his Vietnamese dishes, which include recipes made with Vietnam-specific spices and a fermented fish sauce called nuoc mam. But his most popular dish served at East is Pad Thai.

Thai food’s complex flavor and texture are similar to Indonesian, Malaysian, and Indian recipes, but with superior spices, which are an added attraction. Spicy condiments, such as nam prik, and a liquid stew called kaeng distinguish Thai food from any other food family in Southeast Asia. While not all recipes include hot spices, they do include Chinese-influenced noodle dishes, Indonesian-influenced satays, and Indian curries.

In order to specialize in Asian cuisine, Kinla learned to cook Indian, Malaysian, and Indonesian food in Dubai. He was recruited from a Dominican Republic resort, and enjoys his current position at Carlisle Bay because “It’s a more relaxed atmosphere with less stressful working conditions.” He is solely responsible for preparation of his sauces and curries; in fact, he prepares enough to cover for his two days off each week. His future venture will be the creation of a spa menu for East, which will include a selection of light and healthy dishes.

Go exploring
My third day on the island, I was relaxed and ready for adventure. I took a 20-minute boat ride along the perimeter of cliffs in the Caribbean to the historic Nelson’s Dockyard area in the English Harbour. In 1784, naval admiral Horatio Nelson arrived at the English Harbour’s man-made military fortress, leading the Battle of Trafalgar, Britain’s greatest victory against French invasion. Nelson considered Antigua’s tropical weather suffocating, referring to it as a “vile place.” I disagree with Nelson’s assessment, but I slept in an air-conditioned room.

Refreshed and drenched with sea spray, our tour group motored through the turquoise water surrounded by mineral-rich copper soil and walls of creviced rock. As the boat curved to the left at the Pillars of Hercules, we docked at the English Harbour’s luxurious Georgian dockyard area where the remains of more than one hundred stone cane-processing windmill towers are now shops, restaurants, and bars. After a short gift shop and bakery visit, we headed back to our speedboat and munched on a bag of freshly made chocolate chip cookies as we headed back to Carlisle Bay, straight to the lobby’s cocktail lounge before our last night’s dinner.

Instead of the expected Caribbean-style steel drums, a stroll through the open-air lobby might include the soft sounds of classical piano music – played either by a hired musician or a talented guest.

Horatio Nelson’s opinion of Antigua might have changed if he had traveled there for the purpose of relaxation and not to lead a war. The cramped quarters of a battleship cannot compare to an ultra-luxurious resort.

In the famous words of Horatio Nelson, "Every man will do his duty.” My duty was to re-charge during the course of a long weekend, and as I placed my sign of privacy, the conch shell, outside of my door for the last time, I felt my mission had been accomplished.