The last country.

A year ago, I was living in Germany. It's easy to forget, perhaps, as time has a way of buffering down the details. In two weeks I'll embark on my final journey, back to the small town of Wassenberg where it all began. In the heart of my last goodbyes, I'll be taking the first steps towards a conclusion by sealing away the introduction.

The final flight, the last country. Germany completes the circle.

Too pensive to be healthy.

Would you blame me if all entries henceforth go on about me leaving Europe and returning to Hawaii? What I'm doing, going back home to finish my schooling, is the correct decision. My future can not progress towards my ideals without a degree. Still, that big step forward also doubles as that big step away. As frequently as I've had to say goodbye to people and places, I'm no better at it than I was to start out with. Contrary to how I may behave, I am sentimental and I get attached. Like a starfish that is so rooted to a spot, I have difficulty leaving a place once I set my feet down. And yet, without constant motion I would starve, always hungry for the places I haven't been. A nomad I may be, but my heart falls in love with everything it sees - a rather painful way of life at times, perhaps, but worth it. Passion, in the end, is never short at hand.

As of late, I've allowed myself to drift into a state of melancholy, sending sad eyes to buildings and street signs, trying to embed their images into the part of my mind that is capable of remembering. Then, as if to protect their feelings, I always add, "I'll be back and we'll see each other again." I do this in part because I believe it to be true, so much so that the sentence might as well be fact. I will return as my business here is unfinished. I have yet to experience Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Warsaw, the entirety of Greece, Portugal and Denmark. In truth, I have barely scratched the surface of Europe. With so much left to learn, it would be impossible to stay away.

I have friends here and family too, and memories of experiences that have shaped my life. The truth is that I'm not the same person who arrived here heartbroken and dejected in 2008. I owe much of who I am to this continent and those who have taken me into their hearts. Saying goodbye this time will be more complex than any other farewell I have ever given. Am I prepared? No. Will I ever be?

Likely not.

Pack Attack

There are less than four weeks until I return home to Hawaii, and yet, the fate of my possessions has still gone unsettled. It can only be natural that after a year and a half of living abroad, one would accumulate at least twice as much as they arrived with. I am the exception - I have accumulated three times that amount.

I've done what research I could and found an affordable alternative to shipping my heavier goods. How I have accumulated so many books is beyond the capacity of my memory. What you see below are just the ones that made the cut.

So, by Wednesday, my travel books will be doing what they do best and I'll be twenty-seven days behind them. Gradually, the shelves will become bare, the walls will get naked and I'll be left in a room with high ceilings and four obese suitcases.

This is where you tell me I have too much hair.

Dance like you're in a circus.

You don't realize you've never been to a circus until someone asks if you've ever been to a circus. As a first time circus goer, I thought I'd make a little documentary of my night under the big top



All in all, great fun, and if you can't view the video, click HERE!

All I can think about is how afraid I am of returning home.

Moving back to Hawaii feels like a break-up and I don't know if I'll be able to handle the distance.

Nobody knows what I am

I'm referring to ethnic ambiguity. When you're half Japanese and half white, you could very well get away with being any race depending on the context.

I know my existence confuses people. We meet and their eyes attempt to process exactly what they see, but it's difficult because I share traits with both the east and west sides of the world. If I'm surrounded by white Europeans then I'm Chinese, which was demonstrated to me by a girl who, ten minutes after meeting me, asked, "So where are you from? China?" I was taken aback of course, being that my English had distinct traces of an American accent, but I was willing to overlook her automatic assumption. Afterall, there are only thirty seven countries in Asia, all of which possess a different nationality of people, so how could I blame her for picking the biggest one first.

Then, when I was in the United Arab Emerates, which is technically more Asia than Europe and yet still somewhere in between, I was once asked if I was "Red Indian." A quick image search in Google shows me only one picture of a female Red Indian:

Now, if there are two things to be learned from this, let it be these:

1. I do not look like that.

2. If Google has only one picture of a Red Indian, then it's highly unlikely that you've ever actually seen a Red Indian. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I look so foreign to you that you feel the need to compare me to an endangered ethnic community.

But the most interesting verdict that people have come to is in some ways more sensical. In fact, this is the situation that happens most frequently. It usually begins with me talking to myself, saying something daft like, "I wish I were the niece of King Midas' second cousin from Japan so that I could turn everything I touch into rice... God, I'm so Asian." At the mention of me being Asian, conversation will stop, all heads will turn and someone will bravely ask, "You're Asian?"

This is the part of the story where time freezes and I feel the need to reassess who I am, where I am and who exactly these people are. Yes, I'm Asian, I'm in my apartment and I obviously don't know these people well enough. At this point I can clarify the misunderstanding by asking, "Of course I'm Asian, what did you think I was?"

The answer they give is brilliant: Hawaiian. "I've never seen anybody from Hawaii before so I just assumed you were Hawaiian." And you have to admit, that makes a lot of sense. How is anyone supposed to know that there's a distinct difference between me and a true, ethnic Hawaiian? How are they supposed to know that I am the epitome of straight-up Haole? If not Hawaiian, then what else could I be?

The truth is that there's no way to know. Chalk me up to being a half breed, a mutt, whatever you can think of and I'll take it as long as it still retains some semblance to what I actually am: JapaneseGermanIrishScottishWelsh.

Okay fine, just Hapa.

That's not Italian.

It's a well-known fact that I am incapable of being constant so this shouldn't be a surprise.

Baking Soda does it all.

Italians are not proficient bakers of sweets, though nothing compared to the South Koreans whose homes are not equipped with ovens at all. Still, the use of Bicarbonato di Sodio, or baking soda, is used here more often than I have ever seen. Aside from leavening your basic cakes and tarts, the Italians use baking soda to give a small fizz to their water. In fact, to purchase baking soda from your local supermarket, one would first have to peruse the soft-drink section in order to find it.

In addition, I've also seen people wash their fresh produce in a bowl with a mixture of water and baking soda. Ask Arm & Hammer and they'll suggest you scrub your fruits with a sponge sprinkled with their product. I tried it on my apples once and, not to sound like the son of a skeptic, but I couldn't tell the difference either way.

Still, the strangest use I've seen demonstrated for me in this country would be the direct application of baking soda on the teeth. It makes partial sense as I've seen my toothpaste tubes declaring its partnership with baking soda, tag teaming to eliminate cavities AND whiten your teeth for the good price of one. But is it possible (or even wise) for baking soda to accomplish more than just making your cupcakes fluffy?

Nix: So tell me about bicarbonato di sodio.

Rebe (she's 11): I sometimes put toothpaste, then salt and then baking soda on my toothbrush because it whitens your teeth. It's disgusting. But it's useful.

Nix: Who told you to do that?

Rebe: My daddy.

Nix: Do you do it everyday?

Rebe: No! Absolutely not. Otherwise it ruins your gums. You do it once a month.

And there you have it. The many uses of baking soda in Italy. Be warned if you decide to try out the last option as baking soda is surprisingly salty and therefore downright disgusting on the palate. My advice is to brush your teeth first, numbing your taste buds with that fresh and clean minty flavor before giving it a second go with BS (and by BS, I do of course mean Baking Soda).

When bulbs burn out

I'm not saying that our apartment is falling apart, but things have ways of leaking, clogging, sticking, breaking and malfunctioning like you wouldn't believe. The lights in my room flicker so often that I once had to ask my flatmate if I was having seizures or if she could see the flashes too. During the summer, the generator in the apartment upstairs exploded and the residual water dripped liquid into our bathroom for a week (so don't even get me started on the multi-colored mold that has since taken root on our ceiling). As if our bathroom couldn't take any more, its only bulb burnt out and the plastic shell that covered it refused to come off. It's been showers by candlelight and pee-time in the dark.

While searching for a replacement bulb, however, we did stumble across an old Christmas tin, filled to the brim with gaudy holiday decorations. Plastic snowflakes covered in gold sparkles, cartoon drawings of baby Jesus, a few rotting pine cones, fake poinsettia flowers and a flashy red sign that read, "Buone Feste," Or Happy Holidays in Italian. Suddenly, with the excitement of children, we abandoned the light bulb quest and set about with decorating our meager flat. Virgin Mary here, plastic ornaments there and that tacky "Buone Feste" sign to be hung and taped to the front of our door.

I grabbed my scratch paper and threw it on the kitchen counter, declaring the next ten minutes to be paper snowflake crafting time. Annika and I set to work, trying to remember just precisely how to fold those things in the first place. The first few came out square, like babies born to paper box fish, and the most horrific ended up accompanying the Buone Feste sign outside. The hilarity the snowflakes created distracted us for long minutes until I finally had to ask, "is something burning?"

During our arts and crafts, Annika forgot her pot of lentils on the stove and the fumes wafted up and out our windows smelling strangely identical to marijuana. The boy who lives upstairs caught me laughing in the hallway and I invited him to our entrance to admire the new decor. He commented on the smell and left, to which I shouted after him, "Eh, Buone Feste!" And closed that pathetic door behind me.

The dreams that cause you to wake up crying.

I had been living abroad for a year and my mom was there to pick me up at the airport. This was a dream that was a continuation of now, except it was taking place in December 2008 - two months before my grandma would pass away.

It was nice to be back in Hawaii and the weather was warm, though the sun was setting and I was tired. Mom parked the car outside the house, except it was the house we used to live in ten years ago. Inside, it was full of life. Family moving around and holiday dishes being created. I looked around and saw my aunties, my uncles, my cousins, my dad. And Grandma. She was exactly as I remember her, and I missed her. I went up to grandma and asked if I could help her cook. She asked if I knew how to make six-minute pie and I didn't. Wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I said, "If there's a twenty-five minute chicken, then maybe I can help." So she brought out a cutting board and I knew she was going to teach me. She brought out the baking soda and measured it, tapping the portion out onto the cutting board. Then she grabbed the flour and as she was scooping it with a measuring cup, she looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry we didn't make more things." In my sleep, I started to cry. What she meant was, "I'm sorry we didn't do more together when I was alive." With both versions of myself crying, one in the bed and one in the kitchen, I said, "Grandma, we did the perfect amount."

The tale of the super chestnuts.

Around midday, my flatmate and I walked over to a small market near the park to both stretch our Sunday legs and stock up on fresh produce.

We both have had a big thing for chestnuts which goes back to a few weeks ago to when her coworkers gave her a full bag to prepare at home. We sat around that day, peeling shells and commenting on how delicious something so simple could be. So, when I saw a dozen burlap sacks filled to the brim, I knew I had to be assertive and order a kilo.

With an enthusiasm that can only emerge when ordering chestnuts, I read the sign and said to the old man, "Un kilo di SUPER MARRONI!" Now, In order for you to understand the ways in which I embarrassed myself, you're going to have to take note of a few things.

1. Marroni = Chestnuts

2. The sign actually says, "Super offerta" (super offer).

3. I read, "Super Marroni"

4. I meant to say "Super Marroni!"

5. But I actually said, "ZZZUPER MARRONI!"

Ja, das ist wahr.

Like falling in love with someone far away.

I've been in Berlin for one day, and already I am feeling something strange. With Venice, I felt the need to revisit, but with Berlin, I feel like I need to stay. For a few real (long) moments, I contemplated moving directly here after Italy - After all, I am only a two hour flight away. But, the reality of income and visas come into play and it's easy to dismiss the idea as a partially bad one.

So, I formulated a plan: Go back to school, study German, get my degree, move to Berlin and teach at an international school. I so rarely have definitive emotions with decisive goals that this feeling of certainty is almost bazar just because it's so... novel. This may actually be the start of a new motivation in my life. Over the past year I've figured that I wanted to teach abroad, though I didn't know where. Without that destination in mind, my plans felt lackluster and fragile. Why, any change of circumstance could reset my ideas altogether as nothing was rooted to begin with.

But now, like falling in love with someone far away, I am making the risky decision to format my life in ways that make that long distance love compatible. I will mold myself through education into someone more qualified for life in this city. And with that, I begin.

What official looks like

Monopolio

I was playing Monopoly with one of the girls, and I had a difficult time taking it seriously as:

1. It was in Italian.

2. The pieces were wooden replicas of a mushroom, a candle and three wine jugs.

3. The "GO!" square now said, "VIA!"

4. And I was buying property in the dead Italian currency of the Lira.

The arrival.

The first day is always the most exhausting. In theory, getting from here to there should be the easiest part, though for some reason it is just the opposite. I was up at 3am, packing last minute essentials before my taxi arrived. When he did, he sped through the city unobstructed by signs of human life and thus, free to ignore red traffic signals. I arrived before anyone else in the airport, so I sat alone with my book, lulled by the sound of flickering lights and the gnomes that work the escalators when no one's around to use them. When I wasn't fearing the sudden onslaught of a zombie attack, I was learning about German history.

By noon I was queuing in front of the information point in Berlin, my usual first stop at any airport. Here I stocked up on maps and timetables and bought a ticket into the city. Maps were made for travelers and I've never spent a day without one since my disaster in Paris. I have come a long way since then.

After unloading my bags at the hostel, I contacted Michael, a friend whom I had met one year ago just days before I moved to Wassenberg. He was an exchange student from Germany, which is the only reason why we delved into a thorough conversation and kept in touch. A month ago he relocated to Berlin, and with an coincidence like that, it would be silly not to meet up. We agreed to meet in half an hour and when he arrived, my weekend began.

In minutes we were joined by a fellow German, Frank, (whose first words to me were "nice glasses," as he was wearing a matching pair), and together we walked around the city. Over the next few hours I knew there was something special about Berlin and already the desire to return was pressing.

The night ended in Frank's extremely large apartment whose bathroom lights triggered the radios to turn on (It was described to me as, "German engineering"). After Berliner beer and a night of great company, I caught the subway to my hostel and sunk into a solid state of sleep.

My intentions were this:

Blog from Berlin.

It's simple in theory, but there wasn't a moment in that city where I had time for anything other than the pure need for exploration and discovery. There's is no other place like it and never, in all my comings and goings, have I ever found it so emotionally painful to leave a place. My experience in Berlin was unique, driven first by a desire to understand its history. This past Monday was the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I made every effort to be there for it. What I didn't know about its history was to be discovered, and by the time the city gathered throughout its streets, filling large, German squares in the name of reunification, I was a transformed person.

This trip can not be summed up in one post or one video, so in addition to my daily blogs, I will cover what I experienced in Germany. In this way, maybe I can change the slogan of my mission from "Blog Every Day In November," to "Blog Thirty Times In November." We'll keep the original acronym for historic documentation.

The cat is halfway out of the bag

It's not quite common knowledge that I'll be returning to Hawaii in December, but the secret is slowly revealing itself. Last week I made the decision final, notifying those who employed me that I'd be leaving in the name of higher education. With a proper degree I can obtain a proper job, and live abroad without the fear of being captured and deported.

What, I never told you? I'm so illegal.

The 11 year old discovered my departure date while I was in Venice, and in some strange way, it really solidified the beginning of the end. She told me not to tell her younger sister, which is news I could never break to a six-year-old anyway. I haven't had the backbone to openly announce this news to the girls I teach English to, and it's become obvious that I am blocking the metaphorical cat from getting out of the bag and strutting free. It's going to be difficult to leave, but I always knew that.

When hard times are ahead, I do what I do best, and that is to deny the things I'll have to face. I pretend there is the infinite version of time stretched out before me, and that the next time I say goodbye to the girls will not be one time closer to the last. Sometimes I manage to forget that when I leave, they'll mature without me. The next time we see each other, I'll be old, maybe married, and they'll have grown into their own personalities.

Regardless, watching other people grow up is not a good enough reason to stay. I'm still young, my own adventures await. The open window that led me to Italy is closing, but other opportunities linger. After all, I have not seen the last of the world. I will pursue the dreams I have at night and the fantasies I come up with in the day. I'll allow myself to be inspired and fearlessly follow the path that my heart desires. It's all I know how to do, and maybe all I'm good at.

But in order for me to move forward, I must first step away. And I'm working on it.

Sickly Epidermis.

Skin. It's something you get used to not seeing once November rolls around. Its rare appearance makes any extra bit of it seem that much more scandalous. Constant cover turns wrists and ankles pale, returning them to a state before excessive UV exposure reminiscent of half-naked days on the sea side.

My enjoyment of white skin is what adds to the thrill of attending Italian lessons at the local university. The rooms tend to be overheated, so I like to arrive early and situate myself in the back of the class. I watch as everyone arrives and remove their coats, though it never stops there. Midway through the lesson on prepositions, the boy from Russia will shed his pullover and it's over - He has just broken the seal. Soon, there are a handful of boys in their white undershirts with the pale skin of their arms looking sickly under the florescent bulbs. I just love it.

Anyway, pictures of Venice are up, so you can click here to view them. I intend to have the video up by Friday, but there's just too much to do before I set off again. My goodness how time flies.

YouTube Cattle Call

How does anyone do a followup post after a city like Venice? Already I'm back in the grind, living out my routine. The only difference is that now, when I close my eyes, I still feel like I'm moving. I guess that's what happens when you spend an hour on multiple water busses and six hours on intercity trains. Yeay travel.

I've been spending my down time going over the plethora of video footage I managed to capture this past weekend. Good grief there's so much. I've also tried to edit the photographs I took, but the task is daunting and I keep moving on to something else, like watching my new favorite YouTuber, Gunnarolla, speak French and sing songs about Canada.

So, in addition to living abroad, traveling when possible, making videos and blogging everyday of this month, I have taken up a side quest. As you may know, I've been trying my best to document the experiences I've had since I moved to Europe a year ago. The reaction that I've received is thrilling, and I realized how important sharing travel and cultural experiences can be. So, being an overly devoted YouTube user, I thought it would be great to start an expat collab channel where five expats living in all parts of the world could document and share what their lives are like under one community channel. Basically, it would require one video a week where we share stories or pictures of what we saw, learned, realized, ate etc. and then post them up. I'm hoping that we can develop a small following of viewers and, in an ideal situation, inspire them.

It sounds lofty, I know, but the hardest part seems to be getting those initial five participants. So, if you happen to be living abroad at the moment and are willing to create weekly videos, then let this be an invitation for you to contact me! (Nixfunkle@gmail.com)

I AM WAITING!

ps. Here's a picture of me and two Australian girls I met in Venice. We're being too cool for alcohol on Halloween night by rocking hot chocolate mustaches in some piazza.

Day two Haiku

Last day in Venice

Documenting through haiku

So don't be confused.

Woke up to the rain

The canals have over flowed

Water on side walks

Boat to Murano

Venetian waves can't stop us

From glass artisans

Starting to feel sick

The boat does not stop rocking

Would like to get off

I have missed my stop

I've circled Venice by sea

Don't know where I am

Ciao Cimitaro

A cemetery island

Trying to get off

Tried twice and failed twice

Murano doesn't want me

I'm going shopping

The holes in my boots

Have been filled in with hot glue

But my feet are wet

Train in two hours

Then five more to Torino

I don't want to leave.

Just call me Gimpy McGimperson

This is "Blog Every Day In November" entry #1, coming to you live from Venice, Italy. This will also be the last time I ever start a blog that way.

So when I was in Paris last year, I somehow hurt my right knee in ways that keep coming back to me. It's a problem that takes its leave during my traveling down-time, but continually reappears to join me in my city-wide circumnavigation. Venice has been no different, and somewhere between Giardini and Piazza San Marco it came back again with a disgruntled fervor that is somewhat reminiscent of waking a hungry troll in the middle of its nap.

Still, this handicap was well earned as I covered a lot of Venetian ground before it had a chance to be debilitating. Making use of my sidekick, the map, I managed to efficiently make my way to the Fondazione Musei Civici Veneziani which has no particles in its title, so I don't know how to properly translate it. What I can do is give you a summary of its collection, and that is mostly modern. Now, I have an inability to appreciate modern art so let me assure you that the reason why I was there transcends both Cubism and Futurism. In my guide book there is a strategically placed picture of Judith II, a painting crafted in 1909 by the famous Gustav Klimt. That perfectly formed boob would draw anyone to it's doors. And so the story goes.

Though honestly, I absolutely adore his work and the three Euro student fare was worth it (current and former students alike, I beseech you, if you want to make the most of your college education, carry your student ID card around at all times and claim your reduced rate entry fee at every possible opportunity)!

At some point in the day, I decided that catching a water taxi would be to my best interest despite never learning how the entire system worked. Trying only gets you so far, so I did the next best thing, which was to hop onto the first boat that appeared. I ended up on the isle of Lido which had nothing to offer me except the danger of death by land vehicle. You see, Venice doesn't have any roads, just canals and bridges. Therefore no cars, just boats and gondolas. There's something extremely pleasant about this, especially after a lifetime of having to share my streets with engines.

On the way home, I took a spontaneous stop to Giardini where I wandered into yet another modern art exhibition, though this was a biennial international art fair, which kind of made it more exciting. Kind of.

This is where my knee gives out and I return to my hostel fairly early to take a hot shower and write you all post cards because blogging about my day just isn't nearly personal enough. This is where you express your gratitude.