Helsinki in 30 Minutes

Actually, I had an hour and a half stop over to wait for a connecting train. Luckily, the train station is only a few blocks from the center of the city and the waterfront. I practically ran down to the water front, snapping pictures the whole time, and then ran back to the station. I also realized that I had ten euros that I would not be able to spend the rest of my trip. So, I ordered up some salmon soup to-go and gulped it down before boarding the train.

Helsinki was a very nice city, probably one that deserved more than a 30 minute jog around town.





Finnish National Theater











































































The Finnish train system mascot




















Salmon soup

Finland Video Post

Sorry, these video clips have taken so long to post. I hope they show different aspects of our time in Finland with family.


Family Organ:



This is the organ my ancestor gave as payment for boat tickets to the US from Finland many, many generations ago. (more)


Water skiing: Attempt #1-



I attempted to waterski with my cousins. Unfortunately, they had been feeding me for three straight days before we got on the water. You see what happened.


Water skiing: Attempt #23



After several attempts and failures (and broken ropes), we went and found a stronger rope that could hold me.

A Smörgåsbord

Because my relatives live in the Swedish part of Finland (mostly along the western coast), many of the foods we ate and the things we did were more Swedish than Finnish. My family speaks Swedish (and Finnish and English) and they consider themselves part of the Swedish minority within Finland.

Here is a sampling of the smörgåsbord of food I had while in Finland:



-Rhubarb-ade (tastes similar to lemonade but made with rhubarb and lots of sugar)
-Doughnut filled with jelly and made in the traditional Kronoby style
-Strong coffee
**Made by Märtha




-Salmon with creme sauce (This was my favorite food while in Scandinavia!)

*Made by Brigitta















-New potatoes and dill









Dessert with Lingonberries on top









Desserts and Coffee:
-Rhubarb cobbler
-Cinnamon coffee cake
-Kronoby doughnuts




-Strong coffee
-Cloudberry liqueur (ask Grandpa how he liked it)
-Vanilla sauce for all the cakes

*Made by Benita








-Cake with kiwi
-Cinnamon and sugar bars

*Made by Birgitta







-Ice cream cake with candy on top that tasted like a Heath bar









-Rhubarb cake with vanilla sauce

*Made by Susanne







Our Midsummer Feast:


The feast Stina prepared for us for Midsummer must have taken a week to prepare.

-Salted, Smoked, or Tarred Lox











-Various types of herring (plain, mustard, and tomato)











-Swedish meatballs






















































-Gin and tonic in a can










-Light beer made in Lapland (the north of Finland)











-Light beer made in Helsinki












-Swedish export beer











-Very strong Finnish coffee!

Midsummer in Finland

Finland has been amazing. I have spent so much time being introduced to family members, making new friends, and eating, eating, eating. As you’ll see from the food blog, I have not gone hungry. In fact, I have become gluttonous. When Robin had me try to water ski behind Janken’s and Birgitta’s boat, I snapped the rope three times. I think it’s time to start a diet or leave the company of family looking to fatten me up.

I attempted to meet my family from the States (Mom, Chelsea, Grandpa, and Grandma) in Stockholm. We were going to catch the same flight over to Vaasa and meet our Finnish family there. Unfortunately, my family’s plane from the States was late and they missed the flight altogether. I sat on the plane looking around with no one to be seen. I asked the flight attendant if she could check the passenger list to see if they were booked for the same flight or if we had had a miscommunication. But as I exited the plane in Finland, another flight attendant stood holding a sign “MICSISKI NICOLAS.” She filled me in on my family’s connection trouble and told me that I should go inside to work it out.

Again, I breezed by the luggage carousel to meet Stina, Janken, Birgitta, and Marita. They weren’t sure if I would recognize them (which, of course, I did) and were more than a little confused as to why my family was not with me. I told Stina that they had missed the flight and that they were still in Stockholm. She didn’t believe me; she said, “You are joking. Where is Sue? She is pulling a practical joke on us.”

We talked with the airline employees in Vaasa and they were not very optimistic about the others getting another flight. It was the Wednesday before the holiday weekend (Midsummer) and everything was very full. We didn’t know how we could get a hold of them because they didn’t have cell phones (U.S. cell phones don’t work outside of the U.S.). I asked if I could get online but the only place that they had a connection was with the computer behind the counter. The employee let me behind the counter and I quickly signed onto Gmail to find Chelsea signed on as well!

We chatted online for about 15 minutes arranging details and waiting to see if they could get a flight. In the end, Chelsea booked new tickets online for the next flight and as they approached the gate the airline had overbooked the plane by… four tickets. They looked the other way as they boarded and arrived only five hours late.

We spent the first few days meeting lots and lots of people. I have seen most of my relatives from Finland in pictures. My mom traveled to Finland when she was 18 years old with her Aunt Elta. Just three years ago, Mom and Dad returned to Finland and met everyone again. Now, for the first time, Grandma Bev, Grandpa Dale, Chelsea, and I were meeting our distant relatives.

We visited the house where our great, great grandmother was born and met our relatives that still live there. The house actually has a cannon hole in the attic from when the Russians attacked from across the river. Also in the house were a desk and an organ that my great, great grandfather gave as payment for their boat tickets to America. Martha even cranked out a tune on the old organ for us.













Then we visited Janken and Birgetta’s house (which is where my mom stayed when she came the first time). Next to their house is Bengt’s leather factory. The factory has been in the family for many generations and takes rough hides of sheep from Brazil or reindeer from Finland and refines their quality. The end product is very high-end leather used for many things, such as leather gloves. Bengt showed us the whole factory and how all of the machines work.

On Friday, Midsummer started. Most people have the day off and spend it getting ready for the big feast and after meal drinking. We went out to Stina and Tage’s summer cottage, which is about 15 minutes from their house. Their cottage is actually a complex of three cottages, one outhouse, and a sauna. It was right on the water, although I’m not sure if it was connected to the sea.













At about three or four in the afternoon, Stina had a banquet size table packed with food, waiting for us—the traditional Midsummer spread, plus some. You can see the pictures on my food post but some highlights were the ‘new’ potatoes (presumably because they are so fresh), lox, herring, and schnapps. The sun was strong—as was the schnapps—which made the meal and conversation all the better.

Afterward a couple hours of eating and talking, we moved to the fire ring to escape the “crunk.” Apparently, “crunk” means mosquitoes in Kronoby-Swedish but it still sounded odd coming out of, two-year old, Saga’s mouth.

Around the fire we had an interesting conversation about the Swedish minority in Finland. I saw a lot of correlations between Swedes, as a minority, and Muslims, as a minority. Both are concerned about preserving their rights as minorities in a majority country. Both emphasized speaking their native language; both talked about the education of their youth. It’s difficult to draw sweeping generalizations about minority groups, and believe me I was not working over Midsummer, but it was refreshing to hear the same issues I have been discussing with Muslim minorities around the world in another context.

Chelsea and I had our first Swedish sauna experience at about one in the morning. We spend so much time in the sauna sitting and talking that I overheated (and sweat a lot!). We ran out of the sauna and jumped off the dock into the lake. The cool water felt so good; my whole body felt refreshed. Then we went back in the sauna for more. I believe we went back and forth from the sauna to the lake four times. Each time working up a thorough sweat before leaping up and running down the dock.

Grandpa Dale had me read an article about traveling in a foreign affairs journal. It discussed the increase in number of people traveling and traveling far. It had lots of statistics about who and where and how far but concluded by saying that people need to be comfortable at home before they should go looking to be at home in other places. I’m not sure how I feel about this (as I think many people travel and find themselves, or define themselves more clearly) but it posed the question: why travel?

As I struggled to explain to myself why I was traveling (besides the obvious “because of research” or “because of my scholarship”), the cliché answers—which the article points out—came to mind. Travel writers and study abroad folk, alike, have written endless taglines about how humans really are all alike. But do we have to travel ourselves to confirm it? Why not trust the novelists and journalists—I mean, their stories will probably turn out more beautiful than any travel journal (or blog) we can turn out.

For me, the swapping of stories and habits that happens in any cross cultural or travel experience is not about confirming the universality of humanity but a genuine exchange between two people. True, this can happen with your best friend or safe in your hometown (and it should) but there was a point for me when that wasn’t enough anymore and I had to explore, I had to travel.

Hopefully, this will be flushed out more in future blogs but for now my Finland experience was exactly why I travel. We talked; we exchanged experiences, and we made friendships. There doesn’t have to be a higher meaning for that to be worthwhile.

I invite readers to share why you travel in the comments section of this blog.



More pictures:









































































Janken and Birgetta's house










Janken and Birgetta's summer cottage












Me breaking the ski rope











Success!










Robin wake boarding










Floating sauna

































Leather from the factory





















The Leather Factory

Family in Finland

I decide to travel to Finland as part of my circumnavigation because I needed to go to Norway for research already and I have relatives in Finland. My ancestors immigrated from Kronoby, Finland, to Oscoda, Michigan, around 1904. In Finland, they lived on the west coast and the Swedish part off the country. In this area, they speak mostly Swedish and most of the signs are in both Swedish and Finnish. In the States, several relatives also moved to Flint, Michigan, for work, which is were most of my extended family lives now (both father's and mother's side). I believe it was my great great grandmother Greta Mathilda and her husband who immigrated with their four young children. In the first few years that they were in the U.S. my great grandmother Esther was born.

Here in Finland, my relatives are actually my cousins. They are descendents of my great great great grandfather John Erikson Lybäck. The kids my age are great great grandchildren of J. E. Lybäck because their great grandmother was the youngest child while my great great grandmother was one of the oldest of the eight children.

Here are photos of family that I took on this trip. Those not in my family may need to reference the family tree at the bottom but it is somewhat difficult to navigate/ understand. I need to apologize for any misspellings of names and those of you that I don't have a picture-- I'm sorry.





Mom and Chelsea (my younger sister)







Grandma Bev and Grandpa Dale (my mother's parents, my relatives in Finland are from my grandmother's side)








Linda, Lisa, Grandma, Grandpa, Stina, Tage, Chelsea, Mom, Björn, Bentti







Björn, Stina, Tage, Bennti








Linda and Chelsea












Björn and Lisa











Birgitta, Janken, Cecelia, Sebastian, Robin












Sebastian and Cecelia










Robin and Janken









Birgitta










Tage, Stina, Janken, Birgetta











Bengt and Benita (I don't have a picture, sorry!)








Jennie and Tommi











Johnny and Pia










Chelsea, Grandpa, Sven-Erik, Steffan, Krister, Susanne, Mom, Grandma








Malin, Magnus, and Steffan










Sofie, Sandra, Märtha, Bengt, Älis, Birgitta










Chelsea, Sofie, Me









Bengt











Anna and Philip

Sea Varmints in Stockholm

Today, I was attacked by seagulls. It was probably worse than Hitchcock's The Birds because I was right in the middle but I didn't stick around for the ending.

I arrived at 7:45 AM in Stockholm and took the train into town. I explored the town before going to my hostel because I could not get into the room until 2 Pm. There was one long street in Stockholm marked in purple on the tourist map and I decided to check out what it was because I was so close. Turns out that purple means tourist shops/traps in Stockholm. The cobblestone street was marked with statues of lions to prevent cars from interrupting our shopping. I looked up and saw flags from all of the Scandinavian countries forming the canopy of this urban jungle. The street seemed to suck me deeper and deeper into tourist heaven until it spit me out next to the river and the Stockholm harbor.













I crossed a bridge onto the island of old Stockholm and walked through the small (again, quaint) neighborhood. The Swedish Royal Palace is on this island, but as I starred past the over-priced tickets at the courtyard, I decided to save my money for lunch. I walked around the island—strike that—circumnavigated the island and made my way to mainland.

About then, I passed a group of noisy tourists sitting on a bench overlooking the harbor. My ear caught several words of Arabic, which required a closer look I realized that one of the women was wearing the hijab and the others were speaking Egyptian Arabic. They were debating something about ‘Misr’ (Egypt). It was at that point that I decided that I may be able to use my Arabic outside of the Middle East more than I thought. Excluding Iceland, there have been Arabic speakers in every country I have visited thus far. Arabic communities, closely associated with Muslim communities and my research, can be found almost any where in the world. It was interesting to see the Egyptian women as very obvious tourists (they had bought Swedish flag paraphernalia).

I really enjoyed the Swedish modern art museum, Moderna Museets. There were several pieces by Munch (one of the museums I missed in Oslo) and some excellent Swedish painters. On my way back from the museum, out of nowhere, a sea gull dive-bombed my head. I ducked out of the way and saw the bird go on to terrorize two other groups of people.

Later, after I had narrowly escaped the bird’s first attack, I got lunch at a street café. Either the burger and fries or my sweet blood were too enticing for the sea gull because he came back and with some of his friends. My whole meal was a struggle to dodge the bird attacks (some already missing one of their legs) and to gabble down my food before they gabbled down me. At one point, I moved to the center of the umbrellas (which put me about 15 feet from the edge on both sides) but still the bird swooped down, under the umbrella and started hovering and beating its wings wildly. The woman next to me said with a heavy Swedish accent, “They are specialists.”

The rest of my meal I ate with one eye over my shoulder. After a several seconds of calm, I thought I saw the bird coming in on the ground and I jumped in anticipation. It was not a bird, but a leaf, and half of my fries ended up on my lap. I finished and quickly left with my tail between my legs—Stockholm’s fowl victorious.



More photos:





Old Stockholm











Gate of the German Church in the old neighborhood of Stockholm

























































Stockholm Harbor







Swedish Royal Palace

















Obelisks everywhere-- I prefer the Egyptian version in Egypt.








My hostel- advertised as, "Free internet, Free hot showers, Free coffee, Free pasta!" It was a good hostel for my one day layover.

Research in Norway

After Brazil and France, I felt like I was hitting my stride in my research. In Norway, I was able to find interesting groups that fit my research, along with articulate people who represented their organizations well. One frustration that surfaced was that people were saying the same thing over and over again—or at least it seemed that way since Brazil.

Because I have interviewed mostly contact people from each group, I have felt like I am getting a press release and sometimes a polished interview. Of course, I have read their press releases and know about their organization from their websites and other literature. What the interview is good for is gauging individual experiences, the personal benefits of organizations, and hearing different voices or concerns from the community. It has been a challenge to bring these representatives out of ‘press core’ mode and down to the personal level, but I guess that’s what good conversational skills are for…

The first individual we met in Norway was the leader of the Pakistani Student Association. The typical student organization leader: she was heavily involved in over six other organizations while balancing her schoolwork from two-simultaneous masters degrees. Her social and political networks ranged from fellow uni-students to Ministers of State. One striking comment stated the problem clearly, “Too often people talk about Muslims and not with us,” followed by a serious roll of the eyes.

I visited several Muslim schools including a Muslim kindergarten and all-girls nursing school. One of the main priorities for the Norwegian Muslim community is the education of their youth. Norwegian language is especially important in Norway for getting a job and is often emphasized. But beside skills to operate in Norwegian society, education was a priority because of the feeling that Muslim youth are not learning enough about their religion and need a stronger Islamic identity. The schools were established to foster a safe, comfortable environment where Muslim children can learn and grow, where a child’s Islamic identity can be strengthened. This goal reminds me of a friend who went to a Christian college after high school in order to strengthen her religious identity before entering the real world. The institutions seem remarkably analogous. One of the employees at the kindergarten said, “It is like a normal kindergarten, except we pray before and after food.” (Of course, there were the few visible differences such as the Arabic calligraphy done in finger paint and dress up clothes complete with head scarf.)

Norway’s Muslim community is very well organized; there are cultural centers and councils that offer many of the typical services such as publishing Islamic literature, education, halal foods, and theological issues. There is also a Muslim women’s organization that is connected with the major cultural center and provides the same services for women in the community. During our interview at the cultural center, Maria and I started talking with the public relationship guy in the lobby of the center. After a couple of minutes, the imam wandered over and sat down to listen. Then just as we were discussing the women’s organization, the president of the women’s group came over with three other women. What began as an intimate interview, ended as an extremely fruitful discussion with many members of the organization. Most revealing were the disagreements when answering my questions. Community organizations rarely stand as one unified thought or idea but rather a running debate about their purpose among members. When asked, “Who experiences more prejudice in Norway? Muslim men or Muslim women?” Each respectively answered themselves.

Another interesting part of the Muslim community in Norway is their participation in interfaith dialogue. This type of organization holds a lot of potential for my research. They are based on active listening and building relationships. Much of their work began in the 1990s before the complicating factor of 9/11 and was based more in a spiritual dialogue, discussing how others experienced God spiritually. The group built trust through their personal relationships and have not dodged the difficult issues such as religion in school and women’s rights. The reason I feel organizations like this one have potential is because they are taking the academic discussions I encountered in France, adding the spiritual dimension, and then using the relationships to benefit both communities.

And these strong relationships are the ones most needed in times of crisis. The community is particularly proud of their handling of the political cartoons that were published in both Denmark and Norway depicting Muhammad as a terrorist. The interfaith dialogue and several other organizations I talked with mentioned their success at staving off a public reaction similar to that in Denmark. By working quickly and relying on the relationships they had already built, they drafted a joint statement the same day and sent representatives to the Middle East. The trust that had grown before had stayed under pressure. I hope to find more groups like this in my research.

Also while in Oslo, I met up with Peter Tonn and Conrad Gogstad, fellow circumnavigators from the club. Both Peter and Conrad were very welcoming and Peter helped set up an interview at the Afghan embassy in charge of all of Scandinavia.

Here are a few pictures from around Oslo:

Computer lab at the Muslim women's nursing school

One of Norway's new mosques (still in construction)

French and Norwegian Food

A sampling of wonderful French and Norwegian foods-- Maria's family introduced to me to so much Norwegian food I could not capture enough of it in my photos. I want to especially thank Maria's mother for being such a great cook and preparing such a great selection for me.


French Dishes:




Salad with egg, sausage (I think made with some part of the neck of a duck), and pâté







Beef and tomato sauce and excellent French wine








Crème brûlée and an apple dish








I love crème brûlée!







Norwegian Food:




Norwegian salmon (lox) with sour cream








Maria's mother's signature salad (lettuce, tomato, red pepper, and lemon juice)







Beef and chicken kebab, baked potato, and grilled corn on the cob




















Jarlsberg cheese







Brown cheese, a Norwegian specialty, has a slightly sweet taste and is very soft.








This was the most common Norwegian cheese that we ate on almost every thing. It was slightly less mild than swiss cheese.
















Bread stuffed with beef, egg, and onion. I think this was a dish that Maria's mom had from Turkey.









Fresh seafood in the Bergen fish market

Fjord Fun

I arrived in Oslo on Tuesday with no idea where I was going to go from the airport. My general plans were to meet up with Maria, my Norwegian friend that I met last fall while studying abroad in Egypt, and stay with her family. I had emailed Maria a month or two ago and had solid dates for when I would be in Norway and even knew the flight time and number. BUT I still didn’t know Maria’s address (or even the area of Oslo she lived in!) or her telephone number. The night before my flight from Paris to Oslo, I scrambled (not only for a bed in Paris) to email Maria to see if she was going to meet me at the airport or if I was going to venture forth on Oslo public transport. Even five minutes before I boarded my flight Maria had not emailed me.

So, flying—metaphorically—without a net, I boarded the plane and made the quick jump to Oslo. Because I am traveling with one relatively small backpack, I can take it as carry-on luggage. It makes for very quick check-in and an even faster exit from airports. I cruised by the luggage carousel and customs (evidently, “Stamps in passports are not souvenirs!”) and was first to enter the welcome hall. A crowd of blonde-haired Norwegian girls was standing directly in front of the door and all gasped and then sighed in unison as I walked through the door—apparently, I was not who they were waiting for.

Luckily, I found Maria behind the pack of tow-white hair and we took the next bus into town. Maria is going to tease me for writing this because it seemed to be the only thing that came out of my mouth for my first couple of days here, but the Norwegian countryside is so beautiful. On just the bus ride in, the bright green color was remarkable with accents of purple flowers. The mountains, even in Oslo, are beautiful and the harbor and bay are beautiful.

My introduction to Norwegian culture came through Maria’s family. Maria’s family is unique because both of her parents are Turkish and immigrated to Norway about twenty years ago. Her parents are from the western part of Turkey and actually speak Aramaic, the language of Jesus that is spoken by only a small number of people in the world. The movie, The Passion of Christ, was entirely in Aramaic but Maria’s brother said the actors’ accents and grammar were horrible. Maria’s father works in the administration at their church and they live in an apartment attached to the church building. Maria’s mother, on the other hand, seemed to be working for me because she cooked so much for the hungry traveler.

Maria has one older brother who works and lives in Stockholm, one younger brother, Saliba, and one younger sister, Sandra. Saliba graduated high school last year and has been fulfilling his mandatory national services at an organization called Norwegian Church Aid. Every 18 year old male in Norway must do some form of national service, be it in the military or in an approved non-governmental organization. Sandra is in elementary school and just started learning English a year ago. She quickly became my Norwegian tutor and we practiced back and forth. She was definitely the more advance student and often said, “Nick, you-are-a-lose-ER.”













My first day in town, Maria took me on a grand tour. We visited the park with distinctive Norwegian sculptures, the harbor, the palace, the National Theater, and the Parliament. It was a great orientation and helped me know the setup of the city for my interviews over the next couple of days.

I like the statues in the park because they don’t have the Greek or Italian Renaissance look at all. Coming from the Louvre, it was big contrast but very Scandinavian. I think I read that Gustav Vigeland studied many of Rodin’s works, some of which I had seen the previous day. There are several statues out of almost 100 statues that most people have seen. The first is “the Grumpy One,” as Maria translated it. The other is the very tall monolith carved out of one solid piece of granite; it appears as a pile of people all struggling to reach the top and no one looks happy. Surrounding the monolith are many smaller sculptures, each depicting people in the mists of their personal struggle and individual lives.













Maria agreed to translate for my interviews and also help in arranging the appointments. It takes almost a full day of calling and tracking down individuals to get two days worth of interviews. Maria not only translated during interviews but also for her mother and father. For only studying English in high school, Maria is amazing at going back and forth between English, Norwegian, and Aramaic. I could pick out words from Aramaic that are the same in Arabic (Aramaic is in the same family as Arabic and Hebrew) but some times I couldn’t tell the difference between Aramaic and Norwegian.

Today in Stockholm, I asked the receptionist if ‘takk’ (pronounced ‘tuck’) meant thank you in Swedish as well as Norwegian. She said yes but that Swedes don’t say it as happy as Norwegians do. It is true, though. Norwegian has more bounce to it than Swedish; Icelandic, on the other hand, sounded like they were playing basketball with their tongues.

On Saturday, we went on a tour of a fjord near the center of Norway. Fjords are the most Norwegian thing I have found, except for maybe brown cheese and you’ll have to wait for the food post to hear about that one. We took the 8 AM train from Oslo to Myraid. It was about five hours but was so picturesque. The train climbed its way through the mountains of Norway and really put to shame what I called beautiful before. All along the way are small cottages sprinkled on the ridges. The mountains are so dramatic; the buildings look like they should not even be able to cling to the mountains. Near the end of the ride, the train approaches the summit of the mountains. The train weaves through glaciers and around glacial lakes. The train station at the top is the highest in Europe.













We boarded another train that descended into one of the valleys. The train was completely packed with tourists. Everyone got excited around each turn and a million cameras went off each time. After about three or four turns, I was getting sick of the same photo and packs of people. The train stopped at a huge waterfall and everyone filled out for pictures. Then suddenly, majestic music came on and a woman appeared very close to the waterfall. The crowd cheer with entertainment when they realized it was one of the characters from Norwegian folklore, Huldra. Huldra is a mythical forest creature with long blonde hair and a tail. Maria commented on what a good summer job this girl had and we laughed at the cheesiness that pleases tourists.

At the bottom of the valley, we found the town of Flåm and our ferry. We got chairs near the back of the boat, perfect for viewing the fjords on the sunny day. The boat started off into the fjord and some of our fellow travelers decided to feed the sea gulls. At first, it was very intense because there were so many birds in one area, but that was the problem. The whole time I kept thinking, “Don’t go to the bathroom on me! Don’t go to the bathroom on me!” The feeding died down for a bit but then a young boy sitting next to me started feeding the varmints. I thought it would be quick but instead the boy made tiny balls of bread to make the feeding last longer, along with my torment.













The fjords are so intense; just one of the fjords or one of the mountains would be a national park in the States. But the fjord near Flåm is one of the biggest in Norway and goes on for kilometers and kilometers with side fjords and waterfalls every other second. Interspersed along the fjord were many small villages. The only way I can imagine getting there is by boat. A few were up on the bluff in almost unreachable locations. There was a tour guide giving dates and names in many different languages over a loudspeaker. It was difficult to hear but each city was directly identified by the date the village church was built.

After the ferry, we took a bus out of the valley. This required a steep climb snaking back and forth up the one lane road. The bus engine strained to make it to the top and hummed very loud. After that we took another train to Bergen and spent the next day there. Maria’s family lives in Oslo but she went to school at the University of Bergen (she just graduated, mabrook!).

Bergen is a 'quaint town’ as several tourists from Texas told us. It has a small-town-feel because the buildings are not very tall, the city center is organized around the harbor, and it has maintained the fishing village architecture in parts of the city. It rained 98 days straight last year and we caught one of them this year. I think it added to the experience because “it’s so Bergen” but I was lucky that it was nice for the fjord trip.



More pictures:





Oslo harbor












Fountain near the National Theater









The Norwegian Royal Palace











Olympic Ski Jump









Traditional Norwegian Lutheran church










Switching trains on our way to Flåm









The seagulls
































Viking gear
































Yes, Harry Potter







View of Bergen from one of the seven surrounding mountains









Church in Bergen











Troll attack! *




*This, obviously, is not Huldra because it is lacking the blonde hair and tail and feminine features.







Bergen street









Graffiti art in Bergen

Research in France

I have placed this post in chronological order with events and research as they occurred, but, as many will have noticed, not on the actual date of posting to the internet. For the sake of posterity, I hope most will notice this and several other new entries.

I have been struggling over the last couple of weeks about how much to write about my research in the blog. I am trying to maintain anonymity for my interviewees, while also giving information about the communities. It is a difficult balancing act that I am sure will be worked out in my final paper and following thesis. I was and am hesitant to post about theories that have not yet solidified in my research and hope readers will forgive me for being silent on the subject the last few weeks.

My research in France began with a rather frustrating beating of the bushes for the groups I had identified from across the pond. The timing of my visit put me with only two working days (Thursday and Friday) of research before most potential interviewees would not be in their offices and unwilling to sit for an interview. I went with Lili (my friend and translator) to the Institut du Monde Arabe without an appointment. The grand and imposing building sits next to the Seine River, reeking of oil money but oozing beautiful modern architecture. The Institut looks out over Paris toward the Notre Dame Cathedral.

Personally, I found the Institut’s building symbolic of part of the Muslim community in Paris and greater France: the building combines the traditional structure of mosques (grand columns and a central courtyard) with modern building materials (concrete, glass, and steel). To add to its uniqueness, the side of the building facing the sun is outfitted with "geometric motifs" that resemble traditional Arabic window shades. The geometric shades adjust according to the amount of sunlight and are now controlled by light sensors. To get back to the symbolism, though, there is a part of the French Muslim (and mostly Arab) community that has found a way to combine both their religious structure and modern-looking civil society associations. I emphasize part because my research also showed many individuals who did not turn to civil society organizations for services.

To mine and Lili’s surprise, we found a booked titled, “A Guide to the Arab World in France” in the Institut’s bookstore. This book contained of over 500 pages of organizations correlated by subject and location. Here was the type of well-organization, prolific, and innovative group that I had been looking for and one that fits the symbolism mentioned before. Although, theoretically and practically non-religious, the Institut serves so many French Arabs that are Muslim that I cannot ignore it as a valuable resource for the Muslim community I am investigating. The Guide was published by the Institut in 2005 and is an ideal publication that members of the Muslim community could use without much difficulty to find the services they need. Ranging from funeral service groups to interfaith association, the book gave me (and hopefully many Muslims) lots of choice when selecting which organizations to visit.

One frustrating area of my research was been that it was difficult to find people who actually use the organizations I’m looking at. In Paris, Lili and I went to the Grand Mosque of Paris and stood outside talking with people as they came out of prayer. The general feeling was that there were organizations but out of the people we spoke with no one had used any of the organizations. This is something my research cannot measure; of course, six days in Paris does not provide statistical data on the number of people using Muslim organizations. It did provided qualitative data that many of the Muslim immigrants that we talked with used their informal networks of family and friends to get acquainted with French society. It also speaks to the difficulty I have experienced when trying to get fellow students to come to university organization events—it is difficult to get people to participate in organizations of all types.

Other more general characteristics of the organizations I spoke with while in Paris were strong and experienced leadership, good contact and dialogue between religious groups, well funded, and government supported. There also seems to be a highly developed interfaith dialogue in France, particularly on the academic side. Two individuals I spoke with made clear how far interfaith understanding has come in academia—the difficulty now is to transfer that knowledge to the broader public and into action.

One last thing that is striking is the eagerness that individuals want to talk with me. Yes, I have had several people refuse appointments but the individuals I have met with and the Muslims I have met in or outside of mosques are almost giddy to tell their story. It may be the ‘out-of-the-ordinary’ factor from a foreigner, let alone an American, asking questions about themselves but I think it speaks to something more broadly. In many respects, the United States has been seen by the world as a unilateral force that listens to no one, but from another perspective, Muslims have been a community (particularly, minority Muslim communities) that have been ignored and not listened to. Perhaps, this is also something my research is addressing.

Go Green! on display at the Louvre

I must think I am superman. On the night before I flew from Reykjavik to Paris, I decided to stay up until 2 AM writing my Brazil blog. Then I got up at 4.30 AM in order to catch my bus at 5 AM. I had to be at the airport by 7:30 and the flight left at 9:30. I was nervous I would sleep through my alarm and miss my bus to the airport. Once I got to the airport and onto the plane I slept like a log.

Lili, my French friend who studied at MSU all last year, had agreed to help translate and show me around Paris but I had to get from the airport to the hostel myself. Now, I did study French when I was in high school so I can understand ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ ‘My name is Nick’, and ‘I don’t speak English!’ It is a bit of a stretch, though, to ask me to traverse the city during rush hour.

I must say that I feel like I can blend in with the Paris crowd a bit easier than São Paulo. I have adjusted my travel garb to try and blend in to each location. In São Paulo, I left my backpack and everything valuable back at the hostel in a locket cabinet and traveled out of a plastic sack. I think I looked like I was coming home from the grocery store—not a good target for pickpockets or muggers. In Paris, I tried the same thing but once on the subway I realized that Parisians don’t use plastic sacks—they use Louis Vuitton. I looked around and no one on my train had a plastic bag. I guess no one in Paris goes grocery shopping.

The first thing a tourist in Paris must see is the Eiffel Tower and my hostel was actually only a few blocks from it but I didn’t see the tower until my third day in the city. I have arranged to do all of my interviews in the first two days in the each city. Thus the mentality: work first, play later—or rather the rest of my time. After two packed days of interviews and crisscrossing the city with bus and subway, I was exhausted but forced myself to go to the tower for sunset.

I guess several others had had a similar idea because the park was packed with people. Families with picnics, couples with flowers, twenty-somethings with bottles of wine, and tourists with cameras massed at the base and in the shadow of the tower. I’m not sure which category I fit into but I took some excellent photos and enjoyed some quiche from the bakery down the street. Then I crossed the street and sat watching the sightseeing boats go motor down the river. You can spot a sightseeing boat by the glaring spotlights affixed to its sides. It must make for better photos but it is an eye sore from the riverbank. It was then that I was stopped by a woman who asked me something in French; this just confirmed that I was blending in well.

Lili and I met later in the week to go see the Notre Dame Cathedral. It was incredibly packed but the sun was out and the lines moved quickly. Being a Parisian makes living near so many famous sites commonplace. This was the first time Lili had visited the cathedral and I had to refresh her memory on the history of the church (I had a guidebook to help). Then we walked past the Louvre and the park to the obelisk. I saw the matching obelisk in Karnak in Luxor last fall. I remember our tour guide saying it was a gift to France but then insinuating something about gift in the sense that it was stolen and shipped out of the country. At this point, I was stopped again by a French woman (I could tell by her accent) but asked in English, “Do you know where the McDonald’s is?” Lili and I couldn’t tell if she was poking fun at the American or really craving a Big Mac. I guess I wasn’t blending in as well as I thought.










I went to the Louvre at 10:30 in the morning and there were no lines. I found my to the Mona Lisa and worked my way to the front of the pack. Everyone says the painting is smaller than you imagine it, so I was prepared for its size and there is, of course, the appeal created by the Da Vinci Code. The painting is well done and Da Vinci obviously had something other than the women in mind when he painted it. I was uncomfortable standing in the herd, listening to others tell their off-the-cuff hypotheses, most of which I had already read in Dan Brown.

I preferred Da Vinci’s Saint John the Baptist, which was just outside of the gallery with Mona Lisa and with no one standing in front of it. Another painting by Da Vinci of John the Baptist had his hands pointing one to the sky and one to the ground. Just as I sat wondering what he was pointing at, I heard a whisper in my ear, “Go green.” I returned the required, “GO WHITE!” but in a proper museum voice. The man and his wife had seen my MSU t-shirt and themselves had graduated from MSU. They had dated in high school and then met again almost 40 years later. The couple had just been married and was in Paris on their honeymoon.

One of my last adventures (or challenges) in Paris was when I realized that I had not reserved a room in my hostel for the night before my flight. I was scrambling to find a place to crash for a couple of hours (my flight was early in the morning) when I started instant messaging with Alex Robin, a Circumnavigator scholar from last year. He asked me where I was and I told him. I asked him where he was—expecting to hear some place in Africa—and he said Montmartre in the north of Paris. For some reason, I thought it was Alex Hill, my friend from MSU who was in Africa for the summer. After clearing up the confusion, I arranged to spend the night on his couch and made it to the airport with no problems.





Crepe Man












Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre












Lili, my French friend who helped with translation all week












The Rose Line (from Da Vinci Code)





































SPARTACUS!

























Stained glass windows in Notre Dame

















































"Let them eat cake."













Dream vechile in Paris












The obelisk












L'Arc de Triomphe












Down pour in Paris












The Invalides

























Bastille






























The Louvre











Jazz-ercising with the Eiffel Tower in the background










Statues at Notre Dame

Bad Exchange Rates at the Fountain of Youth

My visit to Iceland was more than whirlwind. I landed at 11:30pm and took a very expensive bus(everything in Iceland is expensive!) into town. The drive was through the rocky open plains that make up a lot of the island’s surface. It looked like a different planet because of the green moss growing on the stone and the black rock stretching in each direction. As the town approached, I spotted some of the unique architecture of Iceland. The houses, the business complexes, and the churches all had distinctive, modern details that catch the eye.

The youth hostel is located in the middle of the city off of the main stretch. Whereas Reykjavik may have been a fishing village several decades ago, it is now a busy city with industries beyond the sea. I snuck into the hostel at 1:30am, trying to avoid waking up my five other roommates. The next morning I ate a big Icelandic breakfast (toast, rolls, and several bowls of granola) and headed to the Blue Lagoon. It turns out that the lagoon is a huge tourist trap. It was formed from the runoff of a power plant (hopefully it isn’t contaminated) and now has a big hotel and spa built on the edge. The entrance of the lagoon felt artificial—almost like Disney World—because it is dug into the ground, making a rock wall ten feet high on each side. To add to the artificial feeling was the gigantic welcome sign and Coke truck making its delivery.

Because it was a Tuesday, there were few tourists at the lagoon. Instead it was filled with students, probably middle school or high school age. There was, of course, a crowd of senior citizens, probably attracted by some myth involving the Fountain of Youth. Believe me—after four or five hours in a hot spring no one looks young.

I must give credit to the Icelandic engineers who solved the problem of what to do with your locker key when you go in for a dip. The invention included a wristband outfitted with a microchip that was, obviously, waterproof. Once I had all of my things in one of the lockers I shut the door and a near by screen started beeping and flashing. By tapping my wristband on the screen, my locker locked. To unlock it I just tapped the screen with my wristband again and my locker popped open. There were only about three screens that controlled a whole wall of lockers.

Once lagoon-side, I accepted that the weather in Iceland was almost as cold as its name suggests. It also began to rain. For some reason, I had been told a fable that Greenland is cold and Iceland is warm. My personal observation has told me otherwise.

I slipped into the lagoon hoping the bright blue water would melt away my worries, bad weather, and jetlag. The lagoon was about the temperature of a hot tub and the mist floated above the water. The bottom of the lagoon shifted from coarse pebbles at one point to inches deep goo at another. I sat for a while and talked with several students on vacation from England.

The older crowd ventured to the far corner where the spa staff had put a sample of the ‘cleansing face rub’ naturally made from the lagoon. One by one individuals from the group doggy paddled (you can’t really swim or walk upright in the lagoon because of its depth) back across the water with the white chalky substance smeared on their faces. The ‘rub’ is supposed to be left on for at least five minutes to have maximum benefit. An hour later some of my fellow lagoon-ers still had the chalk on their faces--apparently the magic of the lagoon had not taken effect yet.

Because I only had one day in Iceland I decided I couldn’t lollygag around in the water for more than a couple of hours, but those darn Icelanders sure know who to make their visitors relax. The bus I took to the lagoon did not come to pick us up for another four hours. I was trapped 45-minutes from the city, forced to spend another three hours in the warm waters of the Blue Lagoon [please note the extreme sarcasm].

Later, in Reykjavik, I hiked into town from my hostel, past the waterfront to the city center. At the top of one of the hills is the most beautiful Lutheran church I have ever seen. This style of architecture is a prime example of the modern beauty that draws your attention in Iceland. I found the pub with the cheapest burger and beer in town but still almost spent $35. The exchange rate is incredible in Iceland and showed itself in prices everywhere.














My one-day layover in Iceland ended up breaking my budget by miles—or kilometers, rather. I liked the country for its beautiful landscape and can see myself returning to go camping or hiking elsewhere on the island but for the one-day sightseeing jaunt it left something lacking… probably the kroners in my wallet.






Hallgrímskirkja









Thule: Local Icelandic beer






































Boats down at the harbor

Brazilian Food

Here is just a little sampling of the food I had while in Brazil. Yes, I do look like a tourist when taking pictures of my food, but it is worth remembering later. Taking pictures of my food is one of the weirder habits I have acquired but one I'm not willing to give up. Just look at all this good food!





Beef stuffed with carrots and something else, BBQ chicken, garlic rice and noodles.









Brahma- one of Brazil's local brews












BBQ on the stick











Mystery meat described as 'fish'









The dessert I didn't order-- flan.








Traditional Brazilian meal (i.e. rice, beans, and meat)








Another Brazilian meal







The coffee set up in Mario's apartment... mmm, freshly brewed and ten times as strong as coffee in the States. I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth all day.







Cheesy biscuit-- the best thing I tried in Brazil








Freshly squeezed orange juice










Another Brazilian brew









Chicken and spices wrapped in dough and deep fried










Pre-peeled oranges for sale!











Street seller









Corn mash with sweet sauce on top











Green tomatoes, onions, oil, and vinegar








Traditional Brazilian meal with a bonus of French fries and an egg







Guava juice and me-- Frans (my new Dutch friend who explored Sao Paulo with me for a day) said I needed to document that I was getting my vitamins for my mother.





And finally-- Habib's! Two pizza-like items without tomato sauce and with meat and onion on top. It also had "French fries, mango juice, and a surprise" (it came in a kids meal and thus a toy).

Research in Brazil

As I am traveling around the world to do research, it may be appropriate recount some of my interviews and many visits to mosques.

My first interview was in Bras, a suburb of São Paulo, fairly close to the subway stop. Sarah is totally fluent (although she claims to only be close). She navigated our way asking directions, jumping person-to-person down the street, and eventually finding the mosque. Bras is a poor part of town, and the mosque is a very new with over three floors.

We were met at the door by someone who recognized us immediately as ‘the Americans.’ The man said that the whole mosque was wondering who the Americans were and why they were coming to Brazil. He said with a mischievous smile, “the American has come to take our Sheik to Guantanamo!” It was obviously a joke he had been telling for the last two weeks.

I had arranged an appointment over the phone with one of the Sheiks. He met us at the elevator and greeted me warmly with perfect English. The Sheik is about 30 years old and a Brazilian convert from an all-Catholic family. Brazil is something like 70% Catholic and less than 1% Muslim. The Sheik converted at age 14 and studied in Canada for university. The Sheik’s wife wore the hijab and sat in front of a computer during the entire interview. At one point, I looked over and saw she was online viewing her profile on what looked like Facebook or MySpace. Sarah later said that it was Orkut, the most popular networking site in Brazil.

The internet is an interesting tool for my generation but I have noticed it is also being used to link minorities with other minorities. In Brazil, Muslims are “a minority of a minority” as one informant said. The population is so small that is difficult for any organizations to take deep roots, and communities with only Muslims have not formed. The areas that I visited were on opposite sides of the city and in the outskirts of town. The community has clumped together, but is not a homogenous community. Another informant told how Muslim children commute across the city for school (I know from experience it is a long, long way via public transit). Some Muslim families go to mosques in far away neighborhoods because they prefer one mosque to another.

The common denominator is that Brazilian Muslims are networking in order to build a community. It is analogous that Brazil is at the beginning of my trip as it begins to create organizations in its Muslim community. Coincidentally, on my second visit to the mosque in Bras, a group of members met earlier in the day and resolved to form a new organization that will assist new Brazilian converts.

The internet was the tool I used to find Muslim organizations in Brazil and around the world. Ten years ago, my project would not have been possible. The logistics of sending letters to all the corners of the world, waiting for a response, and digging up small community organizations would never have been possible. By simply listing their community organization on a networking site, I was able to find them for my research. If a Muslim was coming to the community to visit or to immigrate, the way to find a familiar social network is through the internet. One informant, an 18 year old Brazilian girl who had recently converted, told me that she found out about Islam through the internet. After reading online about Islam, she signed up for a free Qur’an and a few months later converted.

Seeing the Sheik’s wife on Orkut reminds me that networking through the internet is not only for logistical support (finding the neighborhood, arranging for housing, and knowing where mosques are) it can also be for emotional support. The way I use Facebook (the only networking site I use) is similar to how I assume the Sheik’s wife uses Orkut. She can share her hobbies, favorite books and movies, write journal entries, post pictures, and communicate back and forth with her friends through the site. While it is not the same (and can not be valued in the same way) as face-to-face communication, it is supportive and innovative, both of which an immigrant or minority require.

As I was about to leave, the Sheik mentioned an Imam from Texas that I had heard of. The Sheik said, “All you have to do is type his name in Youtube and you can find videos!!!” The internet is an amazing tool that is being used in more ways than anyone cold have anticipated.

**Note: This discussion on the internet is hypothesis and theory and has not been confirmed by my research. I have not asked questions in my interview about internet use but hope to in future interviews.

The next day I went to a center on the other side of city in São Bernardo. The center works on two main services: education and halal products. I interviewed (in English) one of the Vice-Presidents about what the organization does. The center has worked with the Brazilian government to establish a school in the neighborhood that is Brazilian first but also teaches Arabic language and Islam classes. The school has both non-Muslims and Muslims, but, because it is located in an area of Sao Bernardo that has many Muslims, the majority of the students are Muslim. Non-Muslim students are not required to take the Arabic and Islam classes.

I also interviewed a father of five boys who attend the school. After I asked him what he thought the most important thing the center did, he broke down crying. He said that in comparison to the education he had and what his boys know, it is amazing. All he could get out after that was, “Fabulouso.”













The center is attached to the mosque and is also a beautiful new building. Because it was Friday, many people were there to pray and socialize. I sat in the corner and watched the service. The Sheik spoke Arabic, but it was also being translated into Portuguese and then broadcast to headphones. Almost half the men in the room had headphones on their head. Mosques, of course, do not have chairs (except for the elderly) and most sit on the carpeting cross-legged. There was a balcony over half the room where the women all sat. All of the women wore the hijab while in the mosque but many did not outside the building. I wondered if the women who could not speak Arabic listened to the simulcast in Portuguese through the hijab. Do all the women know Arabic? Or do they just have the earbuds from their iPods under their veil? Sarah later confirmed that many had the headsets on top of the veil.

Outside there were many kids running around in the sun—the parents inside at the service. Afterward, I went outside to talk to several other people. I found a group of boys my age hanging round by the cafeteria beneath the mosque. One of the boys spoke perfect English and told me about his trips back to Lebanon to study Arabic and learn about Lebanon. He was amazingly open and recounted tales I could have heard from my roommates back in the States. He told me—in contrast to what the adults at the center said—that he considers himself Lebanese, not Brazilian. It is interesting to see the difference between how he classified his identity and the generation before him. Or he may have been the most open with me about who he truly identifies with.

One consistent response to questions about prejudice has been that other Brazilians know they are Muslim and they joke with them about it. Brazilian non-Muslims tease that they are bin Laden or terrorists but everyone who mentioned this also emphasized that they did not really mean it and that it was all in good fun.

The last place I visited was a Muslim school on, again, the opposite side of the city in the area called Villa Carrão. This school was different from the previous one because the Brazilian government does not run it; rather it is run by a Muslim organization associated with the local mosque. It is considered a private school and pupils must pay to attend, unless the society provides a scholarship, which it sometimes does. The students’ range from 7-17 years old and are both boys and girls, Muslim and Non-Muslim.

The Sheik of the school welcomed me in Arabic but quickly found the limit to my skills. He showed Sarah and me around the school including the gymnasium, primary and secondary floors, the older and younger students’ mosques, the library, and a computer lab. The Sheik was very friendly and so proud of the school they have built. The school recently expanded and added the library, computer lab, and older students’ mosque.

Then I met with the ‘principal’ as the Sheik called him but his official title was the Coordinator General as the representative of the local Muslim society in the school. The society is particularly proud of the work that is being done at the school. It is evident by the new facilities and the large size of the school (440 pupils) that the society has made the school a large priority. The principal had very good English but every now and then would stumble, look at Sarah and confirm the meaning of the word. It was an interesting habit but one that showed how carefully he picked his words. He really wanted me to understand that education is very important to Brazilian Muslims.

As the interview concluded, the principal confided that he hopes that Muslims in Brazil will unite under one organization in order to coordinate their work all over São Paulo and Brazil. His advice for other Muslim communities around the world was to “please help Brazilian Muslims build stronger organizations.”

I can’t help but hope that my research can contribute to a stronger civil society in the Muslim community in Brazil and around the world. I understood before traveling to Brazil how civil society helps people cope in their country, but it different to see it actually work. Spending three days visiting mosques, sitting in on classes, and speaking with community leaders makes me wish I could stay the whole summer in this community, but I know that the crucial component of my research is comparative… And I need more than one community to do a comparison. Thus onward bound: New York City to Reykjavik to [omitted because my mom's class is having a quiz].

More pictures:




The inside of the mosque in Bras








Another angle of the mosque in Bras-- the upper balcony is the women only floor








A table of arts and crafts for sale in the lobby of the mosque set up after Arabic classes








A few Portuguese students studying to become journalists who were also interviewing the same day as us











The Gym of the school in Villa Carrao








The Library








Classroom- note the Lebanese flag on the window








Another classroom








The younger children's mosque








The older children's mosque








The Sheik in the older students' hallway








Habib's is a very popular fast food restaurant in Brazil. It serves both Lebanese food and new items. Habib, of course, means 'dearest' in Arabic.

São Paulo

In planning my trip around the world, I did not shy away from places that I thought were off the beaten path or have a reputation for being dangerous. I didn’t avoid famous tourist sites or places that I cannot speak the language. Upon further consideration some of those may need to be considered—on my second circumnavigation.

My first few days in São Paulo have forced me to recall the difficulties in travel. While traveling can be very glamorous, people never highlight in their photo albums the buses missed or the tired hours after long flights. Now, I know, I can never complain about traveling and studying for 10 weeks this summer but it can also be trying. I believe this is why traveling, like life, is so rewarding; it is the challenges that make the rewards worthwhile.

First off, Portuguese—the answer to the MEAP test’s question on Brazil’s national language and my newest nemesis. Not closely related to Arabic or Hindi (both of which I have studied at college), Portuguese has been a bit of a challenge. After landing in São Paulo and a long flight behind me, I found my way to the bus station to get into town. I got a map and butchered the location of where I thought I wanted to go. Finally I made it to the bus station and into town.

THE word that I cannot hear or understand in Brazilian Portuguese is probably the most important word: reais, the currency of Brazil. I recently discovered that R’s in Portuguese actually sound like H’s, but even still, the sound I imagine in my head does not match the spelling on the bills or the sounds coming out of cashiers’ mouths. Every time I go to buy something I wait for a rapid fire of words to fly out—one of which I know has to be ‘reais’ but to no avail. I must trust the cashiers completely and fake that I knew that I was suppose to give him 20 reais more than I actually did.

My first day in Brazil I ate more food than a human stomach should hold. I was not a victim of gluttony, rather Brazilian hospitality and generosity. Fresh off my airport bus, I wondered downtown São Paulo looking for something interesting. At one point, I realized either my big backpack or the exhausted expression on my face was drawing attention from others on the street. So, I ducked into the nearest restaurant to have an early lunch (it was 10:30 in the morning).

The restaurant was an interesting ‘self-serve’ lunch (also known as an all you can eat buffet) of traditional Brazilian foods. I met the owner, because I was the only person in the restaurant, who told me he was actually from Paraguay. No one in the restaurant spoke English, but we got by guessing what each other were saying. The food was delicious and I got my first cup of super-strong Brazilian coffee. Close behind the owner was an enthusiastic waiter who really wanted to share something. After a bit of pointing and pantomiming, I had ordered a round of BBQ meats. He came out with a long spike with several pieces of meat on it and slid a couple onto my plate. I ate it politely thinking it was a bonus round of lunch. Oh had I been mistaken—three more rounds of various types of meat and varying ways of barbequing were presented and consumed. And to finish it: dessert of flan.

Next time I will be more cautious about ordering absurd amounts of food and also overly—yet, genuinely—excited waiters.














I continued my foray into the city by walking down the shopping district toward the center square and to the beautiful cathedral there. I explored inside and found a service in progress. There were a dozen or so people in the front of the grand cathedral and only a few in the back. Close by, several older grandmother-like women had lifted up the ropes blocking the pews and sat down. I wanted to watch a little while longer so I did the same. But as soon as I sat down a man came over and told me I was in the wrong spot. The ropes were to show where not to go. I guess I can’t always trust grandmothers to follow the rules.

I talked with the man for a while and had an excellent conversation about Brazil and Brazilian people. Mario, the man who saved me from sin, was actually from Chile but had lived most of his life in Brazil. He goes back to Chile every year to visit his family and is a real estate agent in São Paulo. After walking around the city center more, Mario showed me his apartment and introduced me to his roommate, JoMa (short for Joan Mario), who is an art student at the University of São Paulo. They cooked a typical Brazilian meal for me and we talked a long while about Brazil and the U.S.

The meal was rice and beans (eaten at almost every meal) and some sort of meat. When they were preparing the meat it looked like they were pealing apart a heart but I don’t want to be held to that. The meat was tougher than leather and tasted like beef.

My new Brazilian friends showed me to the subway and how to get to my hostel in the southern part of the city. We arranged to meet the next day for lunch before I met my translator that afternoon.



I need to reassure my grandparents now how good I am at directions. I have not been lost once yet in São Paulo. I have been able to find my way to city centers and suburbs—almost every corner of city—using subways, buses, taxis, and my good-old feet and all of this in the second largest city in the world. Someday I will master the expressway to my grandparent’s house.

I had arranged the hostel before hand online and found it in the back streets of a good neighborhood just off a subway stop. It is a typical hostel: stylish to attract a younger crowd, the obligatory computer with Internet, eight beds to a room, and, of course, cold showers. That aside, the hostel is cheap and has a locker that I can lock all of my valuables in during the day while I venture out into the city.

I am now traveling during the day even smaller than my backpack: I have downgraded to a plastic grocery bag. All I need is a map, my guidebook, my camera, sound recorder, and interview questions and I’m set for the day. The benefit is I don’t have a gigantic pack on my back and I don’t look as much like a tourist. I also feel safer without my laptop and wardrobe on my back.

I arranged to meet Sara, my translator, at the cathedral because needed a central location. I sat on the steps and watched the square throb with people. In front of the cathedral is a large squared filled with people selling trinkets, suits walking to work, and police meandering by. There was an evangelical pacing in front of a crowd with ‘Jesus’ written in chalk; he was shouting at the top of his voice.

As I sat waiting, a white college aged girl walked up and looked cautiously around. Sara and I did not know each other before I arrived. I had a contact with a study abroad program in Sao Paulo and Sarah responded to the email I sent out. We had forgotten to arrange a sign or exact place to meet and were both stuck looking around. The problem is that Brazil is so diverse that you can’t assume a Caucasian is not Brazilian. Finally, Sara made a back-and-forth pointing gesture and we got on our way to my first interview.

Brazil has been very welcoming my first few days here. After the initial adjustment to traveling alone and getting to know the city and people, São Paulo has grown on me even with rain today.

Tomorrow I will post about my research and interviews thus far.

More pictures:






Catedral da Sé de São Paulo at the heart of the city






























































































My BBQ man... he just wouldn't stop serving