The Statistics

99 Days

12 Countries

2 Houses

6 Hostels

4 Courses

1 Birthday

5 Books

2,032 Pictures

27 New Friends

1 AP Test

4 Modes of Public Transport

64 Blog Posts

167 Hours Traveling

All Make For...

One very different Hannah getting off the plane tomorrow.

Meet the Parents.

I got off the plane in the Copenhagen airport and walked as fast as I could without running or looking stupid to the baggage claim. As soon as I walked in there, I spotted a white head. I walked up to it to see Lorin reading on his new iPad and Nanna reading on her kindle. How I missed my parents. I gave them each a big hug. It took about 45 seconds and things were back to normal. Which was strange because in my head things were going to be different. I'm not sure how different, but somehow they were going to be. I was glad they weren't.

After a few hours, Nanna was commenting (she doesn't complain) that her feet hurt. She was wearing white leather addidas sneakers, the ugliest shoes I have ever seen. We went to a shoe store and started trying on shoes. She refused to buy any because they were too expensive. But she also refuesed to put on her ugly sneakers. I told her, "You have to either buy some or put the ugly ones back on. Lorin is done shopping."
"I'd rather go barefoot"
"You can't go barefoot. It's raining"
"Why did I even bring these shoes? I had my comfortable ones packed and put these in instead."
"Well, why don't you buy this pair. They're comfortable AND cute"
"The pair I didn't bring looked just like that. Why did I switch them? Oh Judy."
"I'm sorry you didn't bring that pair. Why don't you decide so we can go?"
"I should have brought that pair. These ones are leather so I thought it'd be good that they were water resistant. I haven't worn them in years. Now I know why. They hurt."
I just started laughing. Then she started laughing. And then we were in a fit of giggles in the middle of the department store shoe section. It was like we'd spent the last 3 months together. It was good.

This morning, we were standing by the canal. Lorin was rummaging in his backpack, and Nanna's sunglasses fell into the water. I was the only one who noticed, but for some reason, I didn't say anything. A few seconds later, Nanna said, "Lorin, I think I'll put on my sunglasses"
I said, "I think they just fell in the water."
Nanna said, "Oh Lorin! This is a disaster. Oh no! Those are m'good sunglasses. I need them."
Lorin said, "´Well, I think they're gone. We'll buy you another pair."
Nanna, looking down said, "If I had a pole I could get them. I need a pole. I could just swipe them over to the side and pick them up." And with that she ran off.
Lorin and I started taking pictures. After 11 snaps of the shutter Lorin said, "look, the sunglasses are floating back. Why don't you go down and get them."
So I clamoured under the railing and onto the edge of the canal. Which is about 10 inches wide. I pressed my back along the wall. I was side stepping over when Nanna came up with a wooden pole 20 feet long.
"Look, I've got a pole" She lowered it into the water and started trying to push the sunglasses toward me. I was afraid she was going to knock me off. So I grabbed onto it "let go, I'll get them". As I looked up, I realized we had attracted a crowd of people.
Nanna said, "No, no, no, it is easier to control the pole from above."
"Just let go. I'll do it" I said. And she let go of the pole. I carefully pulled the glasses toward me. I handed Nanna the pole, reached down, and picked the glasses out of the water.
Nanna was happy, "good job Hannah! I'm going to go put the pole back."
As I side stepped along the small edge, I saw Lorin, camera in hand.
Lorin said, "Well that was worth the whole trip to Europe!"
I climbed over the railing and up the steps. Nanna met us at the top. I handed her the glasses and asked, "So where did you get that pole anyway?"
"Oh, I found it sitting on the dock."

Today, I got to use Lorin's new super gread D300s. The one he bought because he missed me. It was so nice. I love that camera so much. I like the way it feels when you take a picture. It's smooth, almost no vibration. I took several hundred pictures today. So much fun.


ps. Please forgive typos. I'm writing on a Danish keyboard.

Streetcars Home - The Sequal

Tonight was my last night in Vienna. It's been an awful day. Everyone left this morning. So I have been alone in Vienna. I had terrible anxiety. I have never in my life had anxiety. But today, every time I would pass anything remotely meaningful to me, my chest would tighten up and I would gasp for a view breaths. It is so sad to be leaving. It is sad that my study abroad is over. 

The last thing I did in Vienna was get on the "D" streetcar. I sat on it and rode it to the end. Hopefully, you rememeber my first encounter there (the one where I got locked in). I got off the streetcar when I was supposed to and walked over to the spot where they park, the spot where I got locked in. I stared at that streetcar, had an anxiety attack, and then stared some more. I think there was some sort of poetic justice in going there. I could see the change in myself.

Once I was done at the streetcar, I figured out where I was and got home on the S-Bahn. There is also poetic justice in that.

Oh Vienna, how I will miss you.
I get to meet my parents tomorrow in Copenhagen. I'm excited.

Tagging

Today, I was sitting on the steps of a fountain eating my last gelato with the group. Ale said, "I'm going tagging with Jenny and Breanna." To which I respond, "Can I hop on that wagon?" 10 minutes later we are staring at a wall, spray paint in hand. Ale went first, after which we all went for it. Guess what? Tagging is so fun. Seriously, I did not want to stop. I now understand the joy of the tag. Maybe I'll have a new hobby when I get home.

Planning the masterpiece.

Artist at work.

I left my mark. 

See.... I CAN be cute.

I plead the fifth.

Though I HAD just finished my German final. 

I will never write or speak a German word again.

Wish she was here.

The Last Essays

So we had to prepare 3 final essays to turn in for Louise's class. Here are mine:

Streetcars Home

The summer of my sixteenth birthday the Atlantic Ocean separated my parents and me. I was granted permission to go on a college study abroad to Vienna. I had finally achieved the independence and freedom all teenagers covet. I was excited for my new, perfect life. I did not realize, however, that with my newfound freedom came a great responsibility for myself.  Learning that meant I made some big messes.

The first mess was my third night in Vienna. The sun had set but it was not yet dark. I started heading home. I got on the “D” streetcar where I had gotten off that morning. As the scenery flashing by grew unfamiliar, I had a revelation. I was on the right streetcar, but it was going the wrong way. I decided that it was safer to take the streetcar all around the circle rather to get off in an unknown spot. It was going to take longer than I wanted, but I could not afford to get lost.

I was bent on this plan. So when the streetcar crossed the Danube, I stayed in my seat. When the streetcar halted and all the other passengers got off, I stayed in my seat. When the streetcar stopped and the conductor got out, I stayed in my seat. Reasoning that like the tram that runs through the Hilton hotel in Hawaii, my only experience with public transportation, they were switching drivers and would resume the journey shortly. After several minutes the train hadn’t budged. I decided to get out and try to get home another way. I stood up and pushed the door open button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. Still nothing. I was locked in the streetcar. My face contorted as I started to sob.

I started pacing up and down the streetcar, too literally like a caged animal. I saw the emergency exit bar. I had been told in orientation that when pulled, it was expensive to replace. I wanted to shop for European fashion, not splurge on streetcar emergency exit bars. I looked at the wooden seat I had just occupied. I could sleep there and be just fine. I reached for my phone to call the adult in responsible for me. Don’t worry about me. I am safe, spending the night in a streetcar. My phone was dead

I had my hand on the emergency exit handle, giving up my dreams of European fashion, when I saw a man in walking his bulldog passing my streetcar. I desperately pounded on the window, bruising my knuckles. Tears streamed down my face. After several pounds, he noticed me. He started laughing, and I laughed with him.  We both recognized my pathetic state. He found the conductor who grumbled and turned the streetcar back on. The yellow-gold light lit up and when I pushed it, the door opened.

“Danke” I shouted, rather high pitched, to my knight in shining armor.

I saw two old men with potbellies sitting on a bench. I walked up to them and in a moment of inspiration I used German I didn’t realize I knew, saying, “Sprecken Sie English?” They laughed having just seen my rescue from the streetcar. Of course I was a foreigner. Only a foreigner would get locked in a streetcar. They said “Nein. Deutsch”.

I looked around, utterly lost. The two nearest street signs read “Praha” and “Budapest”. I looked at the various modes of public transportation around me, but near as I could tell, they were going places I didn’t want to go.

I was standing on the curb when I saw a taxi coming. I did what I’d seen done in movies and raised my right hand above my head. Miraculously, he stopped! I hailed my very first taxi. As he slowed I realized it was a blue Volkswagen. I wanted a black Mercedes. My need to get home surpassed my desire for class. I got inside. It smelled like old cigarettes. I habitually told the taxi driver my American address, then, embarrassed, my Viennese one.  

He drove. I was relieved to be on my way home, until he turned onto a street where every sign had a curvy woman and the word sex on it. I grew anxious. I did not want to be sold into the sex trade on my third night in Vienna.

We soon turned another corner. The driver followed his GPS and found my house with no problem. I handed him 20 Euros, not waiting for change, and ran inside. I flopped down on my bed, breathed a sigh of relief, and was asleep within seconds. 

The Sin of a Writer

The cafés of Europe have always been temples for writers. The Café Procope in Paris was where Voltaire, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin discussed and wrote about ideas that changed the world. CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien had a writing group they named “The Inklings” that met every Tuesday in The Eagle and Child at Oxford. JK Rowling went The Elephant House in Edinburgh to write the absurdly successful Harry Potter series. Café writers such as these from a special breed who, as Anne Morrow Lindbergh put it “must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.” That is why I, a self-proclaimed café writer, write. I write to force order upon my thoughts and find the mental peace that only comes when my strands of consciousness have been placed in neat rows on the page.

I come to my favorite café in hopes of doing just that. Today the table at which I sit is covered in a crisp, white, ironed tablecloth. The table is small. It can fit two but is really meant for one. The waiter comes and asks if I want an espresso. I tell him yes. I shouldn’t. My parents have taught me to be very selective about what I put in my body: nothing remotely addictive including alcohol, cigarettes, tea and coffee. But I am wary of ordering hot chocolate. Only children ask for hot chocolate. The rest of the world orders a coffee with their personal combination of cream and sugar. The waiter brings me my espresso. It is on a silver tray with a large sugar shaker and a shot glass filled with water. The coffee itself is dark brown with a ring of tan foam around the edge. It sits in a round, porcelain mug that could not hold more than a fourth cup of espresso. I put it next to my journal. Its scent ascends. Coffee smells like heaven.

           Time passes. My thoughts no longer bump around my head like children in a bouncy house. They are now lined up in a constant, isolated stream of words.  I have several sheets of paper filled with dark blue words written in my messy, boyish handwriting. Only time will tell if they are worth anything to anyone besides me. To me they are worth something. They are a small part of my soul.

I am ready to leave. I have done all I will do today. My mind is overheating, grown tired under the effort. My eyes scan the café searching for my waiter. Then I look at my untouched espresso. I am suddenly self-conscious about how stupid it will be if I pay for a full espresso. I would appear uncultured and young. Both of which I am, but I neither of which I am not ready to admit to. I know I can’t drink it. I stare at my muse, wondering how I can destroy it.

         I pick up small glass and fill my mouth. The espresso is cold after sitting. It is also strong. It makes coffee ice cream seem like pure sugar. I nearly spit it out. I stand up, my mouth full of espresso, and I go as quickly as I can to the bathroom. I turn the door handle. I push the door; it doesn’t budge. Some damned person is using the bathroom, probably for a more conventional purpose. I stand in the hall my cheeks full of coffee like a squirrel before winter. I fight back my gag reflex. My stomach contracts. I start counting. I get to twenty-eight before the door is opened by a tall woman. I push my way past her not caring if I offend her but careful not to spurt espresso onto her ivory sweater. I hang my head over the toilet and spit out the coffee in a stream of brown that reminds me of polluted waterfall.

        I go back to my table, relieved to be rid of my burden. I lift up my index finger as a sign to the waiter that I would like my check. The waiter won’t bring it until I summon for it. It is part of the respect for the café writer tradition. I pay two Euros for my espresso, really paying for my seat. I am paying to be a café writer.

Don’t Let Your Luck Spill Out

         The mountains belong to my father. Not all of them, of course. Just a piece. Twelve acres to be exact. He owns twelve acres of the Uintah Mountains. My father has made his twelve acres a classroom where he can instruct me on everything he finds pertinent. He taught me to hike, fish, do the dishes by hand, play in the mud, ride an ATV, crash an ATV, drive a car, hitch up a trailer, mend a fence, divert a stream, start a campfire, identify Indian Paintbrush and Sticky Geraniums, look at the stars, spot a deer, but best of all, he taught me to ride a horse.

          My father loves horses. When I was just a toddler he would put me in front of him on the saddle and we would go for short rides down the drive way and back.  I grew up a little bit and developed enough balance to sit on the horse all by myself. We would go for longer rides, sometimes hours. He would ride in front, holding on to my horse’s lead rope. His grasp on the lead rope loosened over time and I started to ride the horse on my own following behind him. My bravery grew and I rode in front. My younger horse would outpace his. I rode on my own for the first time when I was twelve. I promised not to gallop and went on a ride down the dirt road and back, maybe ten minutes. My father watched me out the kitchen window, and chided me as I galloped up the driveway. I was stubborn and refused to listen. I regretted my stubbornness a week later when I fell off galloping up the driveway. But my father was there, as always, to help me up and give me a boost back on. He gave me confidence and I started saddling up by myself and going on longer rides in the mountains up to rockslides, springs, meadows, and overlooks while my father stayed home nursing a bad knee.

           My father taught me how to feed a horse by hand. He taught me to spread my hand flat, palm up. He taught me that I had to fight back the instinct to curl my fingers.  He taught me to hold my hand out to the horse, offering the treat but not forcing it upon him. He taught me that the horse had to be allowed to choose. That the horse would reach out his neck if it were right. He taught me that the horse would gently but quickly eat off my palm with his lips not his teeth. He taught me how soft a horse’s nuzzle is. He taught me how their whiskers tickle. He taught me and I, in turn, taught others.

       If you walk into my father’s closet you will see a large boutique’s worth of slacks and monogrammed dress shirts.  You will see 12 white shirts and a wall full of leather dress shoes. But if you look past that, you can also spot three cowboy hats lined up in a row. Brim in the air so the “luck doesn’t fall out”. A closer look will reveal the overuse of the first one. Gray and worn, not quite holding it’s shape, “shapeless and bulged because it had served for a while all the various purposes of a cap” (The Grapes of Wrath). This hat belonged to my father’s father, who rode on a silver saddle. The next one is straw. It smells like sweat. That is my father’s, worn in reining competitions. On the last hat you will notice brown rhinestones. That one is mine: a surprise for my fourteenth birthday. If you are perceptive enough, you’ll notice that it has less luck then the rest. A young teenage girl put it down brim first, spilling her luck out. Her father quickly turned it the correct way. He taught her to save her luck, because there would inevitably come a time when she would need it. 

Heaven on Earth

Guys. I've had the best day ever. Seriously. I found paradise.

First, Amelia and I went to the globe museum. The only globe museum in the world. There should be more. I've always had a thing for globes. I think it dates back to watching cartoons as a child. I remember one episode of Recess where they had a globe that opened and had bubble gum in the center. Since then I've had a thing for globes. When my great-grandma died last year, I got my great-grandpa's glob. It sits in my room. It is seriously my most prized possession.

So I walk into the globe museum today. The first thing I saw were a pair of globes. What? Globes in pairs? Yes, you see globes used to come in pairs. One for the earth and one for the heavens. This particular pair of globes each had a 4 foot diameter. They belonged to Louis XIV. My mind flashed to images of him turning his globe, much to Colbert's dismay. Globes are symbols of  power. The world seems so small and manageable. Someday I would like to take a trip to a place chosen by spinning the globe and placing my finger. Someday.

The globe museum was filled with globes from all over the world from all time. The globes all came in pairs. I found myself marveling at humanity. We, as a race, have such drive to understand. The instruments used to measure, the way the globes of the earth and the heavens were made. I was awestruck at the dedication to knowledge so many had.

Once we were done in the museum, Amelia and I went to the national library. As I walked in, it went like this:



This is what it looks like when not animated:

Seriously. I just stood there with my mouth open. Heaven is the Austrian national library. There is no question about that. The wood was goregous. Elegant patterns from the grain and the color that wood ought to be. Everything was gold. It was pretty gold. Not gaudy gold. It was floral themed. Beautiful. But best were the books. A hall, this center room, and another hall of books. Two floors of this. Not paperback books. No. Leather and gold bound books. An unfathomable amount of beautiful books. I have never been happier. I sat down and marveled. And marveled. I kept repeating to myself "I can't believe this exists". It is clearly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I never wanted to leave. I left my heart sitting in the Austrian National Library. I need to find myself a beast to give me one just like it.

Happy Birthday Lorin

Today is Lorin's birthday. In honor of that, here is a list of 25 things I love about him:
1. He lets me grow up and encourages my dreams whether it be dragging me and the horse to Joe's for riding lessons, letting me steal his camera, or sending me to Europe for 3 months. He's always there to me up and help me along.
2. When I was in 4th and 5th grade he was busy learning to be stake president. I started to withdraw from him. So he started giving me notes every day before school. I have an entire box full of 3x5 cards that he wrote me.
3. He will say "Han, we haven't spent time together in a while, let's go do something." And so we go do whatever we want to do. Usually it includes dessert.
4. Two days before I left, he came home with the most beautiful flower arrangement for me. Just because he loves me.
5. He is very adamant we have family prayer. 
6. He has treats in his office at the church and he lets me steal them. Even if it is the last chocolate.
7. He loves to teach me. He will send me articles he finds interesting, or tell me stories I can learn from, or spend an hour trying to help me understand my pre-calculus homework.
8. He tells me he is proud of me. Even when it is little things.
9. He won't let me live anything down. Like when I was 10 and trying to get off the horse and fell off it defending myself by calling it a "grateful discount" OR last year when he took me fishing and I got my hook stuck in the guide's nose.
10. If he thinks I'm wrong, he will tell me. But he won't force me to change.
11. He let me drive his Lexus as soon I got my permit.
12. He let me keep driving his Lexus after I almost crashed it. Several times.
13. He lets me choose the radio station. Usually.
14. When my mom told him to buy a new TV for the basement, he had a 108-inch HD projector with surround sound installed.
15. He asked me if I still had my drivers-ed book in anticipation of his upcoming license renewal. Just to be safe.
16. I have never seen he and my mom fight. Ever.
17. After he had his knee replaced in December, I "had" to drive him everywhere. He said thank you even though we both knew I loved it.
18. He has unbelievable integrity.
19. He has a strong testimony and shares it with me often.
20. He pretends that working and being stake president is a burden. But we all know he is very good at it and loves it.
21. He has always had white hair. It makes him easy to identify in a crowd.
22. He calls me "Hannah Banana Grace Rockhopper Pugh" and "Sweetheart" and "Han".
23. When I ran out of money, he put money in my account as soon as he could.
24. He will be forever making fun of somebody or pulling a prank on them. But he never goes too far. And he has friends that will do it right back.
25. He openly admits that I am his favorite child daughter.

Lorin on trek.                                                                  Lorin with Kate and the horses.