It’s December 26^th and I still find myself saying “happy Christmas” here in Chicago. The cars are massive, people are less polite, and portions seem too much for any human. Being home for the holidays has been a mixed bag of nostalgic longing for the cobblestone culture of Cambridge, and the warm feeling of family and friends whom I’ve missed dearly.

I carried more than a few English phrases with me from Cambridge. It’s easy for travelers to develop a snobby Stockholm syndrome with their destinations; I cringe when I hear crass comparisons between stereotypes of cultures. “The way they it is so much better,” or “Wow, how American of you.”

Coming home, I’ve learned to define what it means to be culturally American. The idea of American culture as being vacuous and vapid is somewhat inaccurate. One professor of mine proclaimed the American four-way stop as a sign of the highly civilized nature of American driving (I laughed in his face).

The truth is, much of the pretentious attitude carried by study abroad students comes from a nasty case of “the grass is greener on the other side.” The great cities of the world – Paris, London, Rome – all have citizens who dream of visiting the great American cities – Chicago, New York, San Francisco.

I try not to be a travel snob, and occasionally it comes through. So forgive me, and forgive the rest of us.

Love, regardless of how one defines it, is not something that exists independently. It requires attention and devotion; that is to say, you have to work at it. Randy Pausch once said, “The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something.” Relationships function the same way.

My girlfriend and I have survived a semester apart, an ocean and seven time zones away. The task was daunting at first, but at the end of the endeavor, I find that it has been a fruitful experience. Here are some of the things I’ve learned.

It’s important to know how to say goodbye (or see you later).

Spending a semester apart requires that a relationship be in its best shape before the term starts. Like a marathon, your chances are best when you are prepared fit; a relationship is no different. It’s important that each person knows what to expect, and to expect those expectations to be challenged and maybe changed. Settle all fights and resolve all issues before the semester, else they’ll fester.

It’s all a lead up to knowing how to say goodbye properly.

Distance will make you talk more.

When all you have is talking and writing to each other, distance will exacerbate any problems and highlight any strong points. In my experience, my girlfriend and I managed to learn so much more about each other in the time we were away, primarily because all we had was the foundation of any relationship: communication. This is a prime opportunity to talk to each other at a depth that hasn’t been reached yet. As you learn more about yourself, share that.

It will be difficult, and it should be difficult.

Be honest about your relationship: Is it really strong enough to endure a semester apart? It’s a tough question to ask, but it’s a necessary one. My girlfriend and I go to different schools and have dated for nearly two years, so we had experience at distance before going into this past semester. However, if you relationship is celebrating its fourth week, and you’ve never spent more than 24 hours apart, it’s worth a critical self-evaluation.

Break conventions.

Few relationships are the same. A close friend of mine turned his relationship into an open one, in which both parties were allowed to see other people. That may not be a set up that fits everyone, certainly not me, but for the right couple it may work. There are all sorts of ways to keep a relationship going. Don’t be afraid to break convention to make it work.

It doesn’t feel like I’m leaving soon. I’ve been on so many trips and excursions this semester that some part of me feels like going home is just temporary—that I’ll be coming back to Cambridge soon. In this sense, Cambridge has really become my home. The streets, the pubs, and the people have all grown on me and I feel like I could stay here forever.

Going home will be nice, though. Seeing family and friends for the holidays will most likely revitalize some of my energy. Of course, I’ll most likely lose all that energy in the first week of classes at Valpo. I could make a list of all the things I will miss from Cambridge, but none of it will do justice. Each and every one of those things fit together like notes in a beautiful symphony. On their own, they’re just things; together they combine to make this brilliantly magical.

Here’s a playlist of songs I’ve come associate with Cambridge.

Sigh No More – Mumford and Sons

To the Beggin’ I will go – Old Blind Dogs

Little Lion Man – Mumford and Sons

God Save the Queen – Sex Pistols

Scotland Yet – Old Blind Dogs

We No Speak Americano – Yolanda Be Cool & Dcup

Dominos – The Big Pink

Fight – DJ Fresh

I’m a Lady (feat. Trouble Andrew) – Santigold

Click here to listen to them. Cheers!

Snails. I ate them.

The idea to some seems rather repulsive, mostly because of the mental prejudice we have for gooey, slimy things. Escargot, as it turns out, tastes fantastic but has the texture and composition similar to calamari. Also on my list of new things I tried in Paris was bone marrow of lamb. It was salty and delicious.

As my semester wanes, the advice I have for new study abroad students is simple: Leave your presumptions at home. I urge you to throw yourself headfirst at things you’ve never tried. Skip the McDonalds and instead go to the local pub on the corner and get fish and chips. Ignore the Starbucks and instead opt for Auntie’s Tea Shop, a family owned cafe. Put back the bottle of Budweiser, and instead pour something from Samuel Smith’s Brewery, or Theakston’s Old Peculier Ale.

You may not like everything you try, but you’ll never know until you do.

I think I can say unequivocally that street performers in Europe are some of the best I’ve ever seen. Talented and dignified, they park themselves in a crowded spot and perform – not just for money, but genuinely for the thrill of an entertained audience.

Take, for example, a magician I came across in Edinburgh, Scotland. After disappearing acts, conjurations, and wise-crack jokes, he built the suspense for his finale. He had two members from the audience assemble him in a straightjacket, wrap him in chains, lock him tightly in four places. Once bound, he sprang up on a bench and made an eloquent plea, not for money, but for dignity.

He said, “If you are not satisfied with my performance, then the show is free.” Meanwhile, audience members looked puzzle, asking themselves by what authority were they being charged. He continued, “When I finish my finale, I will put my hat out.”

His voice sharply grew louder. “Do not,” He exclaimed, “give me your spare change. I am not a beggar and I need not your pity or charity. I left a lucrative profession to become an entertainer. So please, if anything, leave my with my dignity.”

I gave him a five-pound note.

Other performers I’ve come across have been dance troupes and chalk artists. Some were jazz musician like the following trio from Amsterdam:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVyCgfLg9EA

… or clarinet-led Venetian group:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eM7pQlyjZco

… or the string group in Madrid playing “Por una Cabeza”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VPiyhPLz6Y

… this violinist on the Paris subway

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTXvGrd6sTU

In all cases, these performances were  spectacular.

I ran with the Cambridge cross country club this morning. The pack leader looks at me and asks, “So you’re a half-miler yeah?”

I reply, “Yes, I run the half-mile and mile.” A hush fell over the group, which consisted mainly of 5k and 10k road runners and half-marathoners. After about a minute of silence the pack leader turns to me and asks, “Can you hold your distance?” in the same tone of voice senior fraternity brother would ask a pledge, “Can you hold your liquor?”

I replied in a cowboy accent, “Damn straight.”

“Good lad,” he smirked and we floored it for the remaining five miles.

All before my first class this morning.

It’s 4:45 this morning and the sun remains asleep in Scotland. The sparse streetlamps of the town Inverness quickly fade into the blackness of the highlands as my train careens forward. In order for us to make it home at a reasonable hour, we opted to leave at a unreasonable hour; the nearly nine-hour trip flies when asleep against a train window.

“The next stop is Nairn,” said the overhead. Nairn, what a pretty name, I think. It not only sounds pretty—especially when spoken with a proper Scottish accent—but it’s also aesthetically pleasing. It looks and sounds as if it was stolen from the pages of Lord of the Rings or World of Warcraft. It’s a tall, kingly name.

Inbhir Naraan is the original Celtic name of Nairn. Like most public signs in Scotland, it is listed underneath the official name in a dull yellow color. Even the jumbles of letters like “Bunsgoil Ghlinn” and “Mhonaidh” have seemingly more unpronounceable origins.

The Scots make a big deal out of names—especially family names, which are not merely a form of identification here. Your family name branches backward into the past, intertwining you with roots of human history. All the plaid designs of Scottish wool, called “tartan,” are specifically designated to a particular clan or family. Every gift shop sells garments and trinkets with Scottish family tartans. From Bruce to Lochlan to MacGregor, there’s a specific plaid pattern just for your family.

I think my scarf is a Wallace, I think glancing down towards neck. With a heavy, tired sigh, I gaze into the black highlands landscape.

While faded ghosts of Scottish pine trees whizz pass my window, I have time to contemplate my own name. Schnake is of German origin and its closest translation is somewhere between “gnat” and “mosquito,” though I’m not sure why anyone would choose that name. About four or five generations ago, Heinrich Schnake emigrated from Bavaria in Suden Deutschland to settle in southern Illinois. The strong German heritage seemed to smoothly run through the family tree—at least until my brother and I came along.

See, I don’t look very German. Derek Schnake could as well be a fair-skinned Bavarian fellow playing a tuba in a pair of lederhosen. But, my clay-brown skin and coffee-colored hair invite speculations of anything but German. Mostly, I get some variation of a Latin American country, but every now and then I get Italian, Grecian, or more rarely, Arab. The fact is I don’t match, thanks to my mother’s Filipino heritage. I usually tell people I’m Filipino instead of German because it makes the most sense to people. It matches what they see.

As the sky above the North Sea begins to brighten, I wonder what my mother’s maiden name means: Pangilinan. What does it mean? What is its history? Maybe in Manila, the capitol of the Philippines, they have gift shops with Pangilinan inscribed on an overly priced bottle-opener key chain, much like Scotland. Somehow I doubt it.

The sky has now turned to a turquoise color. Those pine trees now have more manageable silhouettes and I can begin to see the hills in the backdrop. The clouds seem to scatter away from the sun as if afraid.

Here in Highlands—and all the UK, for this matter—family history is something you wear on your sleeve, no matter how meager the origin. For the Scottish people, a name and a tartan tell the family story. For me, I stuff two very different cultures into a space fit for one.

Still, as dawn passes into day outside my window, I’m comforted and thankful. As much as I cherish my family’s history, I don’t revel in it. Unlike many of the ancient grudges alive here in Great Britain, I’m not tied down by my family’s past; I’m free to live for the moment and embrace the future.

I’m liberated by the start of a new day. Thank you, Scotland.