Emerson College - Emersonian Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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Across the square, the Spanish Riding Sciiool wliere proud, straiKht-i)acked ridei ' s put tile famed Lippizaners throu} ' h their paces. Stop to eat more wonderful desserts Then return to the hotel enjoy the luxury of a hot bath in a loriK, tile tub, wonder when next you will have the pleasure. .Midnight in a couchette corifjested quarters can’t sit up can’t write lyinjr down less than seven hours to Venice Gro}?f;:ily rubbing ' sleep from our eyes we sit on piazza steps in the early morning light. Brown water laps up against the edge of the square, a discarded plastic bag, some pigeon feathers float by. Across the Grand Canal, a shite dome glimmers with the first rays of the sun. Ted lectures us on meeting place and time. We half-listen W’atching the city come to lazy life this Sunday morning. A motor boat cab chugs by. Released, we explore the city — a city not only of famed canals, but also of narrow winding streets twisting around and across those canals via tiny arched foot bridges. In St. Mark’s square, thousands of pigeons, seagulls wheeling, obnoxiously screeching. Artists line the docks Sight-seeing boats wait, then depart. Tourist-packed to capacity Outdoor cafes with hundreds of tiny white tables overlook the bay. Next stop, Florence. Race through darkened streets, backpacks bouncing, muscles struggling, lungs pumping Eyes trying to take in sights along the way. “This was a real test of mental and physical strength. It was an overseas pleasurable hoot camp.” Jessica Gohen Cramped quarters, four to a room, clothes strewn around and a bathroom littered with toiletries. Dirty hand towels, quick shower floods the bedroom floor. Luggage sits in a puddle of water. A man, tiny spider monkey clinging to his leg distributes rolls for breakfast. Leave beds unmade and hurry to learn Florence like the back of your hand. Admire the beautiful Palazzi and artwork, climb 463 tortuous steps to the top of the Duomo. Sit on cold grey marble under carved pillars and arches on top of the great dome of the third longest cathedral in the world. Santa Maria del Fiore. Look out and over a city centuries old through a wire fence. Up here where wind whips hair around and chafes our faces, fingers turn to ice. Lean back against a white marble pillar, graffitti-adorned with autographs and dates of visits. It’s easy to understand why tourists flock to this city — Few can resist the beauty, the cuisine, the prices! Outdoor markets boast incredible savings on leather goods, neon signs flash “Real Italian Ice Cream.” Shop-lined flagstone streets graze the stucco sides of buildings. Broken shutters hang askew from rusty hinges. Laundry strung out on lines between buildings from balconies window to window. Bellies full of warm and caffeinated capuccinos and cold ice cream cake spiked with rum. “There was the frustration of being in a place and wanting to see everythittg before you leave. You try to cram in .so much and keep health and strength.” Marcie Littlefield We arrive in Rome sporting new jackets, boots and handbags bought in P lorence. Cold coffee at breakfast. Rolls and Butter. Again. Yearnings for eggs and toast. Set out on a walking tour in the rain, huge drips falling on busy streets. Hear buses rumbling, brakes squealing. Dodge puddles and umbrellas, try to keep up with the group tour. Feet soaked. Hair dripping. Catch a dreary glimpse of this city, its fountains, cathedrals and ruins — all of it grey, all of it wet. On a better day, we eat lunch on the Spanish Steps. A coin tossed into the Trevi Fountain guarantees a return visit. For now, though, memories of Rome consist of tromping around in grey rain, trudging along behind ' Ted, sight-seeing like it would go out of style, back aches, great, cheap restaurants, and Dynasty re-runs dubbed in Italian. 7:30 a.m. “Buon Giorno!” The train man greets us as we wake, groping to find toothbrushes, combs and contacts. Traveling along the coastline, see the sun rise over shimmering water, palm trees, and pastel stucco houses. After frigid Rome, the warmth of Nice is a comforting thought. Race from the hotel to explore this seaside haven. Sit overlooking a pebbled beach, where the water is four shades of blue, and glittering waves swell and break, foaming. Soak up the sun’s rays. Relax. At Monaco, sailboats jam the docks, bumping and nudging themselves and the wooden piers. Ropes and flags flap, dive and tango in the breeze. Winding paths and driveways overlook the seaport scene and lead to the castle of Prince Rainier. The casinos offer a diversion from the more relaxed activities of viewing the sea, the landscapes, and playing along the tree-and flower-lined walkways. Visit the Chagall Museum. A breath-taking structure exhibits the works of Marc Chagall, dedicated to the people of France. Paintings and mosaics are filled with emotion and symbolism. Overwhelming, stirring. Supporting the loc al colloseum Jessica Cohen, Stacy Zucker, Donna Chessare deter the fall of Ancient Rome. 26 Compendiuni Events

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Field trips to the Council of Europe, Strasbourfj’s Cathedrale, the KronenbourfT Brewery and a vineyard. Those excursions were only the begrinning’. Weekends found us on a nine hour truly romantic road trip through Germany, freezing on the side of an Alp, exploring the crumbling castle in Heidelberg, marveling at Koln’s most fantastic cathedral eaten away by mortar shells. Or sitting amidst swans in Lucerne. Stampeding off a boat to catch a train, or chugging lazily up the Rhine as castles, fortresses and the Loreley drift on by. Nov. 6 Moist and misty morning. We depart, say goodbye to the Chateau de Pourtales, to our Chateau. Mixed emotions as we’re sorry to leave it behind but anxious to move on. Bags packed and breakfasts eaten boarded on a familiar bus. Tape blasts “Magic Bus.” Turning slowly away from an old castle, we wave to friends made: our governess, Susan, Chef Frederic and Pascal, the maids. “Why do a lot of them cry when the time comes to leave the Chateau at Strasbourg?” Professor Ted Phillips Catch final, blurry glimpse through fog-shrouded trees. A fairytale castle vanishes existing forever as part of us. Later that day, we arrive in Munich “Sure you can carry a fifty-pound bag across the street, but try walking with it for three miles!” Jennifer Barbone Our first luggage-lugging experience — we drag suitcases, bend forward under the weight of backpacks and try to keep up with a brisk-paced Ted Phillips. We grimace, groan, whimper and sweat our way to the Hotel Herzog, a fifteen-minute haul from the train station. Collapse on the beds in the quads we share for the next three days. Dash off a letter over continental breakfast the next morning Rested and ready to explore. Visit Dachau on a cold, stark day. Clear day, blinding sunlight, harsh white walls reflect the glare. Rectangles of concrete, foundations left intact, stand as reminders of pain, torture, suffering and despair contained. Listen the wind whispers their anguished souls. Sit in the warmth of the sun. Feel the breeze, softly on cheeks, hair in your eyes, you reach over, pluck a grey stone from the rubble a souvenir, you say — a symbol of the pain that was, the desolation that is what’s left. Feel a great sadness If you could resist . Julie Kreichman sinks her teeth into a French confection in Strasbourg. The call to exit answered by Emersonians clamouring to reach luggage, haul it off the train and deposit it on a new platform in a new city. Fifty-three ragamuffin Americans find themselves awake, but barely, ready to trek to a new hotel. In Vienna it’s the Hotel Furstenhof we wait in the lobby for our guide; the invasion of Emersonians is about to begin. “Europeans could definitely spot us. And sometimes I think we were treated with an almost ‘American policy. ' Like, ‘There’s an American. Let’s treat him a certain way.” Kelly Gammon Discover this city of cheap Toblerone Forgotten that night in a beer hall where robust bar maids wield master pitchers of local spirits Long, wooden benches, soaring, beamed ceilings. A traditionally-garbed band churns out lively folk tunes; we sing, drink and laugh alongside jovial drunks from all over the world. An international feast of song, brew and laughter. Cacophony of voices singing, laughing, shouting. Instruments tooting, oompa-pa-ing, glass pitchers clashing together, crashing to the floor. En route to Vienna. Scrunched up train ride. Comrades sleeping bundled in coats and sweaters. Feet propped on luggage, seats and against cool glass. Grey-white sky blank outside the window. Silence in the compartment interrupted by foreign voices. chocolate, closed banks and underground street crossings. Vienna is winter already. The trees are bare. Escape the chill by retreating inside coffee houses. Watch passers-by bustle past bundled in wool coats. Indulge in another huge pastry, another cup of coffee. Discover a quiet elegance, a deliberate slowness. Stop to look in a candy-shop window come face to face with life-size edible statues. Ronald Reagan and Yuri Andropov square off in a store front display. A sign of growing fear in the Western World. Ted Phillips in toga (below). Compendium Events 25

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Napping of a train . . Karen O ' Brien takes grey drizzle. time out from the rigors of the road. Nights spent crowded into bunkbeds A fantasy place, a calm, winking jewel on the ocean. A moment of rest, time for a deep breath before killer couchettes tonight. It tvas amazing to see how everyone pulled together. After a while, we just did what we had to. If it meant getting up at U o’clock i)i the morning to catch a train, we would he up and out. There was a spirit of ‘do it and shut up about if.” Kelly Gammon “Survival on the road sometimes mea is transcending people and situations. Walt Littlefield Feeling exhausted and hungry and dirty. Little things bring great joy: Clean clothes, a cup of hot chocolate, a bowl of soup, a loaf of bread. A sunny day. A warm shower, A letter from home. Even in the rain, though, Paris is spectacular. Places, sights only dreamed of, become unforgettable realities. Ride the Metro and scavenge through flea market wares. Or, do some real spending along the Champs de L’Eysees, Place des Halles. Prostitutes wearing fishnets and sjiandex line Rue St. Denis, eyeing prospective buyers. Thanksgiving is spent in restaurants, missing the folks back home. Mentally preparing ourselves to move on once again. En route to Barcelona, Spain At 4 a.m., the call to switch trains (at the Spanish border) is met with weary reluctance, yawns and sighs. Our dazed and rumpled group, zombies on a new train, arrives in Barcelona at 10:10 a.m. Nov. 22 Our final stop before London, Amsterdam, Nov. 29. And of course it’s raining, as we jog along littered sidewalks panting, arms and backs aching, during the toughest luggage-schlep to date. Retire to the Hans Brinker Student Hotel where the quads are roomy and the showers are warm. Another city, another museum, this time the Vincent Van Gogh Museum. Discover the Ravensbruck Monument, commemorating the victims of concentration camps. Dedicated to the women who met theii ' deaths there. This voyage, it seems, follows a cycle of reinforced learning. From the Dachau concentration camp to the Ravensbruck Monument, we are reminded of the ravages of political insanity, of war. Likewise, from city to city we see the protests against nuclear weapons. The problems of the world and at home are not easily avoided. Here in Amsterdam, the youth are seeking peace, political and social equality, a safer world, employment. No matter where we are — At the Council of Europe in Strasbourg, Dachau, Amsterdam, Boston — people are searching for security, peace, jobs. After two days of roaming cobblestone streets and dodging garbage, we’re off to cross the English Channel and make a final, homeward step. In London, where the native language is our own, simple tasks like buying groceries, reading street signs, become simple again . . A dingy city, gritty and tough, streets crammed with people, smells and sounds. Finances running low, budget shopping a necessity. A few blocks from the hotel buy fruits and vegetables at a huge, open-air market. There, Spanish men bark prices, hurriedly weighing and bagging produce, requesting payment in quick Spanish. We hand him a few bills, hoping that it is enough to cover the price and hoping that he doesn’t bring our foreigness to the attention of the native shoppers. Take advantage of those bargains while we can — tomorrow night, we leave for Paris! “The biggest challenge ivas the stretch between Florence and Paris, ivhich ivas a series of almost one-night stands. It was difficult to be packing up with -everyone getting sick, and to keep going while trying to get enough sleep.” Marcie Littlefield 53 Americans board a night-time train and settle down into couchettes for the last time. Muffled giggles and coughs, train noises and dark countryside scenery. We are one incredible moving machine, relentlessly forging on after quick pitstops. Paris and four days of cold. Hub of youthdom, unemployment, canals and trolley tracks, the house of Anne Frank. Bikers and students dominate this city. As do piles of garbage — the result of a sanitation workers’ strike — lining the sidewalks. Walking, we find ourselves stepping over and around the mounds, often resorting to the streets to avoid the optical and optical unpleasantries Coffee at breakfast is served in cups reminiscent of Dixie Cups at home. Cobblestones and brick buildings I’emind us of Boston’s Beacon Hill. Weary from new sights, we drag ourselves through Parliament and Hampton Court down King’s Road and over London’s bridges spanning the Thames. Spend two weeks in a whirlwind of activity theatre-going sight-seeing night-clubbing holiday shopping. Throngs of eager holiday buyers — caught up in the urgency of purchasing gifts — jam sidewalks and department stores. The pounding surf . . Ted Phillips, Beth George, Jessica Moritt and Michelle Ryan relax on the French Riviera Compendium Events 27