December 6, 2002

It can be difficult for a student to be 3,000 miles from home on Thanksgiving, especially amongst a people incapable of giving thanks for life’s true blessings—stuffing, tackle football, and pickup trucks. Dr. Bradshaw took preventative measures against any holiday homesickness by making Turkey Day difficult on our stomachs rather than our souls. Our feast was complete with turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and pilgrims (okay, family) from across the sea. If only for a day, Strasbourg was as thankful as Plymouth Rock.

My own Thanksgiving guest arrived the next day, a Centre-in-Strasbourg veteran and my current petite-amie. After communicating solely through AT&T and hotmail.com for three months, it was nice to finally have some face-to-face conversation. There would be plenty of time for that on our eleven hour train ride to Venice.

Most Americans possess romanticized ideas of Venice gleaned from storybooks and paintings. Before visiting the city, I questioned the accuracy of these images of candy-striped gondoliers and seafaring musicians carrying the beautiful people of Italy between their palaces and cafés. As it turns out, it’s all true, except the Italians have all left town and the gondoliers now only transport camcorder-toting Americans.