So this past Thursday was actual Thanksgiving Day, and to be honest with you all, it didn’t really feel like Thanksgiving. In the days leading up to Turkey Day, I was feeling less homesick than I thought, most likely because I wasn’t being bombarded with the fact that Thanksgiving was quickly coming up (I made it a point not to check social media for awhile, knowing full well that seeing Thanksgiving food videos and ads would make the homesickness worse).
The actual day was just like any other normal day here in Beijing, China. I went to class and then back to the dorms to sit in the lounge and do miscellaneous things.
But fear not, I still was able to partake in some Thanksgiving tradition here.
Friday night was designated to be TBC’s annual Thanksgiving potluck in the basement of our dormitory building. I got together with two of my good friends and together we planned to bring a huge serving of guacamole to the potluck. The day before the potluck, my friend and I went to a small supermarket on campus to find something to contain our guac. Unfortunately, the supermarket didn’t have much in terms of kitchen container supplies, so we decided to get a green wash basin to use as our container for the guac (no, I’m not kidding). We then got the ingredients to actually make the guac: the vendor who sold us the produce gave us an amused look when we put a plastic bag filled with 11 avocados, 4 tomatoes, 2 onions, and 2 lemons on his counter. The actual day of the potluck, my friend who was an intern at the U.S. embassy was able to get her hands on three bags of Tostitos (which, I never realized I would miss until I ate one tear-inducing scoops Tostito chip). Once we all were able to get together on Friday evening, we rolled up our sleeves and after about an hour, we churned out 11 avocados worth of guacamole (spoiler alert: all of it was eaten by the end of the night).
11 avocados worth of guacamole in a wash-basin
After we reveled in our success in making amazingly delicious guacamole, we went downstairs and were warmly greeted by the Chinese roommates and TBC Student Development staff. Seeing all of the food already laid out on two long tables filled me with the joy and excitement that I feel on Thanksgiving. There was food ranging from Chinese dishes to traditional Thanksgiving foods like turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing.
My mood was lifted higher and higher as more people in the program came downstairs with their food items. As I enjoyed everyone’s company and ate some wonderful food, I smiled to myself, knowing that even though I was far away from my home in America, the home that I’ve found here in Beijing, among my TBC and Chinese friends, was quite enough for me to feel the Thanksgiving spirit.
I’m so, so thankful for the opportunity to study abroad at TBC, the time that I’ve spend abroad, the people that I’ve met while I’ve been abroad, and the people back at home eagerly waiting for me to return.
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I know I did 🙂
I grew up in a Buddhist Vietnamese family. As a child, I went to the closest Buddhist temple to my house every Sunday to sit and listen to the morning chants and teachings alongside my family before attending Vietnamese school for a few hours. I grew up wearing necklaces with little Buddha carvings and prayer beads around my wrist. I was raised with Buddhist traditions, and I was told that whenever I felt unsafe, unsettled, or just not right, I should pray to the Buddha. Doing so would calm my rapid heartbeats and my noisy mind. So it was natural for Buddhism to become the belief that I would call my religion for a good part of my childhood.
But, as I grew older, I questioned what Buddhism meant to me and if it had a place in my life that was more than something I grew up with. I didn’t know if belief in the Buddha would help me achieve my goals — I came to strongly believe that my accomplishments were because of my efforts and my efforts alone. I also didn’t think that praying to the Buddha would do anything for me. I unfortunately found that whenever I did pray to Buddha, when my head would spin and my emotions would reel out of control, I found no calm, no real peace within those prayers. And so, I put Buddhism on the back burner and saw it as just part of my Vietnamese heritage. It was nothing more, nothing less.
Moving forward in my life, I labeled myself as “agnostic,” although I would often clarify to others, “But if I had to identify with a religion, it would be Buddhism. My family’s Buddhist.” I knew that I was spiritual. I knew that there were forces and miracles out there that just couldn’t be chalked up to pure coincidence. I also knew that Buddhism held a piece of my life that I could not just give up. It was huge part of my culture, after all. But I didn’t know if Buddhism itself, let alone any other religion, was right for me, and so for years, I considered myself to be agnostic.
Flash forward to my time here in Beijing, China.
Coming to China, I never expected that something like my spirituality and my relationship with Buddhism, naked and confused, would be brought out into the open. I knew that I would see Buddhism more in my surroundings, more than I saw it back in the United States, but nothing could prepare me for what I would spiritually experience here. The prevalence of Buddhist temples and motifs all over China forced me to confront what I had been neglecting to address for years.
It all started on the Silk Road in the Buddhist monastery town of Xia’he. If you’ve read my blog about our time in Xia’he, you already know that story of my hike around the Labrang Monastery early in the morning. I want to reiterate the significance of that morning to me yet again. What I felt is still something, even after a few months after that morning happened, that I cannot explain. It was a sensation that I just could not begin to understand. For awhile, it only made me really giddy to know that something that significant had happened to me that morning. It was something that I told people close to me because all I thought of it at the time was that it was important to me. After some time, though, I finally was able to bring myself to analyze and reflect on why exactly that feeling was important to me. It was too remarkable for me to just ignore. However, I wasn’t able to come up with an explanation for what it could have been on my own, so I decided to bring this conundrum before a Buddhist monk.
Sunset in the beautiful Buddhist temple.
This monk I met during a field trip my Introduction to Buddhism class took to a famous Buddhist temple in Beijing. After a tour of the temple grounds and a delicious vegetarian dinner, we all sat down inside of a prayer room that looked very similar to the prayer room that I sat in for so many Sundays of my childhood. We then had a Q&A session with one of the monks of the temple, with my professor acting as a translator. I timidly raised my hand to ask the first question of the night. I remember my voice shook as I tried to explain my family background and what had happened to me in Xia’he. I asked him what he thought of my story. I remember my friend, who sat next to me, pat my back in quiet support, hearing the emotion in my voice and knowing that the moment had meant something personal. The monk listened intently as I told my story, shifting his weight on the cushion he sat upon as my professor translated what I said into Chinese. Then, he gave me his explanation.
The Buddhist monk told me that what I had felt could have been a reaction of my soul to the circumstances of that moment. In the Buddhist tradition, the soul is reborn a number of times in a never-ending cycle. He proposed that I could have been a Buddhist in my past life, and my soul, in that moment, could have remembered that it was Buddhist in the past life. I was brought to tears because I unconsciously remembered that. He also said that if that particular explanation was a little far-fetched to me, I could have reacted the way that I did because what I had prayed for was very deep and personal, and because my prayers had come from the bottom of my heart, I was moved to tears as those prayers meant a lot to me.
After the field trip, the first thing I did was tell my parents about the monk’s words to me. My mom smiled with excitement on my phone screen as I told her and my father about the Q&A session. “Maybe it was meant to be for you to go to China and learn more about Buddha,” she said as a passing comment. But I took note of her words, and I held them in the back of my mind as I continued about my days in China.
Since I received that explanation, my heart felt a little lighter. My mom was certainly right that China was becoming a classroom for me to learn about Buddhism in a surprisingly subtle way. I felt like I could look at Buddhism in the eye, sit down, and have a proper dialogue with it instead of ignoring it like I had done for all of those years. I could see it in action in the lives of the people here. I knew, I knew, that deep down it held a very dear place in my heart. It was undoubtedly part of my cultural heritage, after all. I believed in many of its morals, and I had extensive knowledge about the religion. Yet I still had this weird complicated relationship with it, unable to call it my own because I still questioned it. Now that I had gotten to this point with it where I could comfortably reflect, I felt that I could search for an answer to the question I had been asking Buddhism for quite some time: “What role do you play in my life?”
One of the things that puzzled me about the religion was that it seemed contradictory as a result of its material culture. Buddhism is a religion that attacks the material world with such a vigor no other religion can compare. Yet material culture still exists within it. I didn’t understand why it is necessary for us to pray with prayer beads, to burn incense, and to read sutras as we chant. It disturbed me to see so many tourist sites along the Silk Road sell prayer beads and other Buddhist ritual items as souvenirs. So, what did I do to try and understand this phenomenon?
I wrote an extensive 13-page research paper about material culture within Buddhism for a class.
While researching information for that paper, my Buddhism class took another field trip to another different Buddhist temple, sitting down in a monk’s living quarters and having a very casual talk with him. The monk was named Yuan Liu. He spoke extremely good English and was very hospitable, constantly offering us more tea and more snacks to eat. As we enjoyed each other’s company, we were allowed to ask him any questions that we had about Buddhism. Obviously, I had to ask him about the role of material culture within Buddhism, both for my paper and for my own sake.
The answer that he gave me became an answer that I had been looking for.
He said that the items, like prayer beads, are a way to guide the mind, which by its nature is uncontrollable and easily distracted. Whenever anyone starts practicing the Buddhist belief, their minds start out as wild and uncontrollable. The rituals, the chanting, everything, serves as a reminder to practitioners of their belief and the path that they walk on. Perhaps most importantly, he reminded me that what really matters in Buddhism is the tempering of the mind and the discovery of inner peace and happiness through a simple life.
Again, the first person I called to tell this experience was my mom. She basically reiterated what the monk had told me. Perhaps the most significant thing she told me was that wearing prayer beads meant that one was always praying to Buddha, reflecting the dedication to the Buddhist way, even if one didn’t go to temple every Sunday or prayed all the time.
I contemplated on Yuan Liu’s and my mom’s words long after I turned in that essay. I slowly came to understand that all that stupid questioning I did was a result of me blatantly veering off of the path that my parents put me on during my times of turmoil. They had put me on that path because they believe that the teachings of the Buddha would allow for me to grow up into a responsible, strong, polite woman. They believe that the teachings could help me redirect myself when in times of difficulty. I’ve come to better understand that Buddhism isn’t a religion in which I have to do all these rituals to call myself a true Buddhist, but it is a guidance. Buddhism, at its core, is the nurturing of the heart and the spirit, and by passing down its traditions to me, my parents were nurturing my heart and my spirit, long before I’ve realized it. It’s taken me a trip to China to finally, truly, understand that. And that’s a powerful realization that brings me to tears.
My prayer beads.
The prayer beads that I bought in Xia’he as a reminder of that morning now serve as a reminder for the Buddhist teachings embedded in me as part of my Vietnamese identity. I don’t claim that I’ve had a sudden spiritual awakening during this study abroad experience in China. But I think the critical self reflection that I’ve done while I’ve been here is more than enough to say that my perspective on what Buddhism means to me has changed. I wouldn’t have been able to do this self-reflection if I didn’t hop on that plane to come here. I wouldn’t have come to terms with a part of me that I’ve ignored. Buddhism and I still have a lot to work on, together. It isn’t collecting dust behind me anymore as I walk forward in my life; it’s back to walking besides me, acting as a nurturing guide whose presence I am still getting used to.
Maybe my mom was right. Maybe fate meant for it to be this way for me after all.
What a whirlwind the last few weeks have been. Just when I felt like I was really getting adjusted to life in Ireland, my big travel plans began. In the last two weeks, I have been to 7 different cities, not including my home base in Cork. I don’t know exactly where to begin, but I suppose I should start with the trip that inspired this title, where I accidentally entered France instead of Switzerland.
My friends and I were heading to Basel, a city right on the French-Swiss border. Little did we know that the airport was actually on the French side of the border. We landed and I instantly got a text from my phone provider telling me “Welcome to France!” and I laughed because clearly a naive American girl would know better than an established company based in Europe, and I was definitely not in France. So we go through passport control and customs, unbeknownst to us that there were two different lines that led to two different doors, and we went out the wrong one. The one with the French flag on it. Not my brightest moment, but again, I really thought that the entire airport was in Switzerland. And I was also running on less than two hours of sleep.
We’re walking around and we pass a stand that is selling water bottles for 2 euros. Wait, euros? I could have sworn Switzerland only used Francs… But I continued on, not putting two and two together. We kept searching for this bus station that was apparently right outside the airport door, but there was absolutely nothing to be seen. After wandering around for a while, we head back into the airport to find an information desk, where a woman told us we were on the wrong side of the border and we needed to go back into customs and walk out of the Swiss doors. It wasn’t a big deal; it took less than 2 minutes to get into the country we wanted to get into, but the whole situation was hilarious. But then I thought about it more, especially about how big of a deal that would have been had it been another country. I’ve noticed in Europe that borders exist, but they’re not like the ones we have back home. What if someone “accidentally” entered the United States?
I also have to acknowledge that this process was easy coming from me, a girl with a United States passport. When traveling the world, these things are like a golden ticket. In every place I have been to, customs have been a breeze because of the country I come from. In Australia, they put all of the Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans in one line, and every other nationality in another. Can you guess which line breezes through, and which line faces interrogations? In Europe, I see people being given a hard time, while all I ever get is a smile and a quick stamp in my passport. So although it’s a funny story, accidentally entering France has made me a lot more aware of how privileged I am.
After traveling from Basel to Interlaken, Geneva, London, Paris, Dublin, Limerick, and then back to Cork, I have been learning a lot about the process of traveling and how exhausting – yet totally worth it – it is. I’m surviving on little to no sleep and I’m learning to admit that although I want to see and do it all, I just can’t (at least not this semester). But I will continue to try my hardest. For the next few weeks, I’ll be laying low in Cork, trying to pick up where I left off on all of my essays with approaching deadlines. This semester seems to be slipping through my fingers…
Two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of touring my parents, who flew 4,813 miles from Wisconsin, around Rome. Our time together in Rome couldn’t have come at a better time. It was exactly halfway through the semester, right when homesickness was rearing its head. Seeing them brought me comfort and being able to share my new home with them was more special than I could have ever imagined.
From strolling to Piazza de Spagna to Piazza Navona, I made sure to pack in all of the touristy stops along the way. We sampled the local cuisine at my favorite restaurants: Ristorante Edy, Old Bear, and even Osteria Dell’Anima (the Loyola famous “Pear Pasta” spot). We tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain and sipped authentic cappuccinos at Tazza D’Oro. My parents even joined my on-site Roman Catholicism class, and were welcomed with open arms by Father Rudolf as we toured the Lateran. Then, at the end of the week, we packed our bags and set out for Venice.
Venice was exactly what I imagined it to be; a sinking time machine. As expected, being in Venice was unlike any other Italian city I have traveled to, and it took a second to process that there are zero cars on the lagoon, and transportation is dominated by water. Taking a water taxi and gondola ride were experiences I will never forget, and will forever give props to the expert gondoliers that navigate the choppy waters. We had a great time wandering over bridge after bridge and watching St. Mark’s Basilica slowly start sinking underwater.
Parting with my parents wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be since there are only five weeks left in the semester. I am already getting emotional thinking about having to leave Rome, but seeing them again definitely reminded me of all of the love that is waiting for me back in the states, and that in itself, is bittersweet.
For this weekend, I did not know enough French to say even the title. In fact, to write the title, I had to ask my friend to type out “I do not speak any French” in French (on that note, any complaints about translation can be directed to Laney Miller). Yet – while I may not have known a lick of French – I felt so much at home in Paris.
I spent this trip with two of my close friends: Morgan and Amanda. Inspired mostly by Beyonce’s hit song “Love on Top,” but also by a desire to visit one of the most magnificent cities in Europe, we set out to enjoy a weekend of adventures and crepes together in Paris.
Upon arrival, we all went straight to the most busy site in the city – the Eiffel Tower – so we could get our bearings and enjoy a crisp morning in the park. I always knew the Eiffel Tower was massive and imposingly beautiful, but I did not expect to be so stunned when we emerged from the Trocaderó stop of the Paris metro and saw the impressive building. We waited a little while underneath the structure and then made our ascent and peered out in wonder over our new home for the next three days. It seemed like Paris never ended, and we knew there was no way to explore all of its secrets but we decided to try our hardest.
That evening, knowing that the Louvre offers free entry to young European residents (for which, thanks to our staying in Rome, we qualified), we went to my new favorite museum. The Mona Lisa and Winged Victory were impressive, yes, but what struck me the most was how the Louvre was like an exhibit itself. The museum’s halls had been designed by countless different geniuses throughout the ages and thus even its ceilings and walls began to merge with the art it hosted. With the sound of Lorde in my head, I was mesmerized by what I saw. Afterwards, we sat down for some sweet crepes in the Latin quarter and walked past Notre Dame on our way home. Totally casual.
Saturday morning, we made our way outside of the city to Versailles. Or, at least, we tried to. Turns out the three of us were not as good at navigating as we thought. Nevertheless, despite hours of confusion and chaos, we ended up at Versailles and ate our baguette and brie while waiting in line to the humor of all those around us. The Hall of Mirrors, Louis XIV’s bedroom, and the Gardens at Versailles were tremendous and gorgeous, but in truth its grandeur did not at all compare to the laughter we shared tucked away in the gardens over a bottle of Merlot.
After Versailles, we returned to Paris and journeyed to a Digital Art gallery that I had heard about – L’Atelier des Lumières. While normally hosting an exhibit on Klimt, L’Atelier was instead showing an exhibit on nature and society on Earth called Terra Magnifica. In truth, it ended up being much more stirring than Klimt’s artwork would have been. We discussed our thoughts as well as our favorite moments of the trip so far that night over escargot and other French cuisine. I had realized finally that, after years of making fun of the French language, Paris was one of the most comfortable and yet exciting places I had ever visited. I simultaneously felt at home and constantly driven to explore more of the city.
We had purposefully planned very little for Sunday and soon found ourselves wandering through the streets of Paris in search of its gems. We eventually found a few truly hidden ones (like Breakfast in America – look it up!) as well as some better known ones (Shakespeare in Company, Les Catacombes). All of Sunday’s adventuring was fun and relaxing (at least, our pit-stop in Luxembourg Gardens was), but my favorite moment was when we were sitting in a small – A. Lacroix – with Amanda and Morgan and listening to the ringing bells of Notre Dame over macaroons and coffee. Paris felt like mine in that moment; it felt like Paris had decided to share those aforementioned secrets with me.
