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Nestled between two unkempt ‘rusticas” down a narrow lane that cuts through the rock-faced hills lined with weather–beaten cottages and stray cats, she resembles a well preserved but rejected woman with low self-esteem. In passing, the public perceives her freshly painted white washed walls and yellow window frames, putting on a brave face albeit a little tired. Step over her threshold and behold one little-used and unloved ‘pequena casita’; one is immediately confronted with the ‘parede privado’ a privacy wall blocking view into the living room from the lane outside, a case of “speak to the hand – this house is tired”. Built atop and carved out of the edges of an elevated sandstone rock, a sturdy foundation supports walls 60cm thick that keep out the heat of the sun and maintains the much-needed coolness. This room, measuring 8m² was once four tiny quartos comprising minuscule kitchen, living room and…
I can't go anywhere around here without intruding on a soccer game. (An American that calls it football is almost certainly battling a current of pretentiousness – watch for them to blink.) All the little alleyways that sprout off the main arteries crisscrossing the medina have an active game in progress, day and night. Often, these are the really young kids, the under-ten set. I imagine mama has set their boundaries: full freedom in the twisting veins, out-of-bounds at the main thoroughfares where the flow gets heavy with chaos and potential trouble. There is no choice but to interrupt the game - shit is narrow. First priority is protecting Josie’s pregnant belly as the game stops for nothing, no injury stoppage, no extra time. She's been clipped before, so have I. I don't blame them, if they stopped for every passerby it wouldn't be much of a game. I think…
Wednesday, 01 July 2015
When you go to Africa: Preparing for the Trip of a Lifetime
Written by Philip Perry
I am writing this on a beautifully tiled veranda overlooking a spine of green mountains like the back of some monstrous dinosaur, its plates jutting boldly into the sky. It’s dusk. The sun is just beginning to set, spilling those last few rays of golden light upon the world, covering everything in a soft, warm glow. Below foothills inhabit the space between my lodge and the mountains. The hills are mottled with small, white buildings, like freckles on the backs of green whales. I’m staying at the Kabula Lodge, a small inviting warren of buildings and greenery built into one of the hillsides. In addition to the spectacular view, well-manicured, terraced gardens reside just below me which one can wander at one’s leisure. As I compose, the warbling of exotic birds fill my ears, dragon flies flit along the trees and vegetation, and on occasion green lizards with bright blue…
I was only nine months old when the plane touched down. Cradled in the arms of my mother, welcoming myself to arguably the most conservative country in the world. A place where women cannot leave their house without Burqas*, shops have to close five times during the day for prayer, and unrelated men and women can’t hold hands in public. Can a thing as freedom exist in a place like that? I had yet to find out. Having lived in the blistering heat of Saudi Arabia all your life, as a human being, it is still biologically impossible to adapt to the heat that takes over the country in summer. I, a student at a British school, often sought refuge from the sun. Oh, the sun – a great cause of annoyance, smelly sweat, and the frequent fly. Avoid the sun whenever possible. I was only twelve. Oh, how ignorant…
Cities have the potential to crush you or lift you without the intervention of another being. Having lived in Edinburgh for almost two years, my feelings for the city were those of a schizophrenic lover. My affinity with the place was as conflated as the bittersweet smell of malt from the brewery, blown in by the wind. Depending on my mercurial mood, that smell would be comforting one day, and nauseating the next. Like any city, there are different angles and edges to “Auld Reekie.” After cursing the constant cloudbursts for months, I eventually became accustomed to them. Other than Edinburgh, there are very few cities in the world where the rain exalts the atmosphere. In the dampness, you can imagine rugged clansmen, ascending the mound to the forbidding castle. On a jagged volcanic rock, it still stands in formidable splendor. The castle, which now boasts the possession of the…
Although the actual product might seem delicate, elegant and sweet, behind the scenes, the process of it sure is bitter, sweaty, rigorous and almost unfathomable–kind of like the day after drinking it. Filled with Châteaux and vineyards surrounding the city’s borders, wine has become dirt cheap in Bordeaux; since it’s one of France’s number 1 exports, picking grapes–similar to picking olives in the Mediterranean, argon oil in the Middle East or marijuana in the good ol’ US of A–was just another culturally grandiose idea for me. Visions of a Vineyard The current love of my life confirmed the idea after having heard whispers of “farming” and “picking” during my travels through Spain. He needed to make extra cash-money to come back home with me to America, and the best option was working on vineyard. I was all for it, excited even, but he constantly reassured me it wasn’t going to…
The lights of the approaching subway grow brighter as it nears the platform. X is wearing his favorite T-shirt: a bust of Bruce Springsteen performing on stage with his name printed across the front, and a pair of Blue jeans. The doors open slowly, and he enters the subway car, immediately spotting an open seat and sitting down. It’s a bit of a ride to the office, so X decides to use his commute to get some work done. X has only been in this town for a few months, a foreign land with a foreign people and culture. Where he comes from, kids wear diapers and play with Legos. In this land, kids lack siblings and mostly play with their grandparents. X pulls out a sheet of paper. On it is a written language that is one of many spoken here. It’s a strange language, one with little images…
It’s late November and mornings are cold in Transylvania. The heat of last night’s wood fire has faded, and though the sun glints off fresh snow on the mountaintops it hasn’t yet reached the floor of the valley. I pull on a wool hat, force myself out of bed and dash across the courtyard and into the farmhouse kitchen. A wood fire hums in the tiled oven and the radio plays traditional Romanian, all dulcimers and violins. My host, Eugen, steps in from the cowshed with a pail of fresh milk and sets it on the stove to warm. More family members join us with a greeting and soon I’m warming my hands on a cup of thick Turkish-style coffee. My visit to tiny Sinca Noua was arranged through Village Life, a Bucharest-based NGO. Run by Alexandra Vasiliu, a Romanian with a Canadian connection, Village Life helps rural communities develop…
Sunday, 23 February 2014
Nature’s Spikes and Spires: The Calanchi Valley, Umbria
Written by Diana G Armstrong
Out of my window, in the close distance, the hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio floats on a soft sea of mist, as if cast off from the valley below. Umbria the green heart of Italy lies to the north and Rome and the Lazio to the south. This town of Civita, in front of me, is something of an enigma as it sails away from its past and into its uncertain future. It is called The Dying City as it is gradually shedding parts of itself into the valley “Beware of these mists!” my neighbor, a Lubriano villager, warns me as an aside. These mists do clear usually by noon and reveal an astonishing sight: A valley more steeped in mystery than the ancient hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio itself. Civita is a town that the odd tourist will stop by to see on their way from Rome…
I spread the three cards out on my table for Dawkhraa’s brother to see. Two jokers and the ace of clubs. Half amused in being defeated a third time he gave me a smirk. “If you win again I will give you something,” he exclaimed patting his jacket pocket. With new incentive, I dealt the cards again excited for the prospect of a reward and the fact that I found something I could actually beat Mongolians at. Ten minutes later, I once again placed down my last three cards signifying I had won the game. He only chuckled to himself then let out a sigh, placing down the generous amount of cards he still held in his hand and reached into his pocket. He slapped the object on my table, covering it with his palm, almost to build suspense he held it concealed for several seconds before relinquishing his hand.…
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Lying underneath a starry sky on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca while wearing a traditional Cholita outfit is not something I ever thought I would experience. On the small island of Isla de la Luna however, a controversy like a blonde Finnish girl in an indigenous Aymara dress is only the beginning of the strange contrasts. The island of Isla de la Luna on Lake Titicaca relies mostly on fishing as the main source of income for the locals. The island has an exciting history and hosts an ancient Tiwanaku temple, dating from the old Andean culture that lived from around 300BC to 1000BC. Isla de la Luna has also had a run in with the Incas, who decided to make the Tiwanaku temple theirs by adding their own design elements. Due to this rich nature and history, the 25 families that live on the island have…
I stand in my room briefly, thinking if I need anything else. Keys. Phone. Wallet. I place them in my purse, put on my scarf and jacket. I tousle my hair quickly and leave the apartment. The crisp Irish air welcomes me as I open the door. I am currently a resident of Shanowen Square Apartments in the district of Santry in the city of Dublin. I make my way to the bus stop and await bus number 9. The Costa Coffee right by Trinity College, he had said. I think I know where that is, don’t I? Trinity College. Of course I know where that is; Trinity is, after all, only one of the most famous colleges as well as Ireland’s oldest university. I look nervously at the bus routes, trying to understand the winding and weaving of streets that look like a piece of textile cloth, no start…
“We are now entering into the beautiful city of Cadiz [Cadith],” announced the soft-voice of our tour guide on the bus from Madrid to Cadiz; his “z” sounded like a “th.” I peered out the window at my new home. Entering a new country becomes an experience that changes one forever: new sights, new smells, and new sounds. In my time traveling, I learned that to appreciate a culture was to immerse myself completely in it. My trip to Spain proved to be one of these life-changing experiences—landing in Madrid, I had no idea what to expect. The sky looked the same; the sun had followed us from New York and sat in almost the same spot. Our group of thirty Villanova students sleepily piled onto a mega-bus and headed towards our hotel, which would be our home for the next couple of days. Three days later, still jetlagged and…
The ridiculously loud bump ba bump ba bump of Arab techno music pounds in my head. I’m lined up with twenty middle-aged Moroccan women wearing spandex and colorful sweatbands as we follow an instructor on a podium gyrating her hips and winding her hands seductively. She lets an ecstatic ululation out into the crowd, which the women enthusiastically echo amidst double-time kicks and hip thrusts and crossovers. The human energy is absolutely electric, but I'm panting and tripping over my own feet. How did I get into this strange situation, you might wonder? Let’s go back several weeks, when I decided it was time for me to start exercising again. My amazing life abroad seemed to be stagnating, and I needed an injection of zest. As an expat, developing routines that remind you of home can be helpful. And while recreational exercise is unheard of in many parts of Morocco,…
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Semester Abroad in Istanbul: Galatasary vs Fernerbache
Written by John David Charlton
In 2009 I spent six months studying in Istanbul as part of my degree course. There were many reasons as to why I chose Istanbul over the other cities available, one of which being the chance to experience what many view as the most infamous football derby in the world. Ignoring the obvious safety concerns, I’d read enough on the Istanbul derby to want to go. The existence of Besiktas does indeed complicate matters from time-to-time, but the real antagonism lies in The Kitalar Arasi Derbi (Intercontinental Derby) between Galatasaray and Fernerbache. Galatasaray verses Fernerbache is in many ways the perfect storm. A cocktail of geographical, political and financial contrasts making it one of the few derbies that is—at least to the fans of the two sides—truly more than just a game. Like all world renowned football derbies, the Istanbul derby had a political edge. Whilst Galatasaray is located in the…
February 18th Samurai swordfights, strutting Geishas and the Seven Gods of Fortune were images conjured up when I first read that Sakura, the Japanese town where I lived and taught English, would hold its twelfth annual Jidai Matsuri: Festival of the Ages. The advertisement appeared and zipped by in the local English language newsletter for about thirty seconds and I gave it no more thought, as the clock rolled over to 2:00 pm and I was due for my next lesson. The students, Yukie and Kanako, were two lively retired ladies with a high English level from years of working in the tourism industry. Incidentally Kanako brought along a Japanese newspaper bearing the same advertisement for the Jidai Matsuri. She regaled me with tales of festivals past and asked if I would be joining the parade. Letting out a high pitched laugh, I was baffled…
Istanbul is a big market. Yes, they sell everything: from roasted chestnuts to whirling dervishes. They sell with heart and sticky obtrusiveness: if you stop even for a second, you’ll get stuck for a half of a lifetime. "Why did I come to Istanbul? A thousand times I regretted it. Time has passed, and there is no escape,"- says an old Turkish song. The longer you stay in Istanbul, the clearer you see author’s point. This city sucks out time, money, and energy, but it seems you don’t have the strength to push away another cherished glass. How many of these stories: one came for a week - stayed for a month, another came for a month –stayed for 10 years. Well, at least there are many of us, the stuck ones. Not to mention 12 million locals. Plus roughly 2 million tourists a year, but to be honest, these seem…
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
A Brazilian Expat Finds a Home in the South of France
Written by Thais Chalencon
Leaving HomeI had just earned my BA in tourism in Brazil and had begun looking for work when I had a depressing realization: my employment options were limited unless I could acquire one or more languages to complement my native Portuguese. So it was that in 2008 I packed my bags and left Brazil, en route to the United Kingdom, where I planned to improve my English.After 10 months in London, I needed a break. Worn out by so much study and the challenges of expat life, I decided to walk the Camino Frances, one of the world's most famous spiritual pilgrimage routes: Santiago de Compostela.Though my intent was to relieve my stress and deepen my faith, I encountered a major distraction just 10 days into my walk. I met a French man who began walking alongside me. We haven't separated since. Our respective journeys aborted, we changed our itineraries.…
When I decided to apply for the Peace Corps, I thought it would be best to enter the process with no expectations. With a degree in English and Sociology, an interest in humanity and no true direction upon graduation, I thought it was past time that I experience life in a different culture. Within months of my interview, I knew that I would be headed to Cape Verde, the tiny archipelago off the coast of Senegal, to teach English. What I didn’t realize was how much I would learn over the following two years. What follows is a glimpse of my experience, and a few realizations that defied my previous understanding of life while living through the lens of a different world. ***We like to think that we are all unique individuals, but there are many universal certainties in the human experience. We are all born of someone, have lived…
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
A Day in the Life: Faith and Suffering in South India
Written by Thomas Crowley
“Tea or coffee?” asks our affable host Charles as I shuffle into the living room, rubbing my eyes. My day has hardly started and I’ve already been presented with a reminder of India’s penchant for creative borrowing. Indian tea would hardly be recognizable to a Chinese connoisseur; Indian coffee would baffle a café-frequenting European. The drinks have been given an Indian twist, as have many foreign traditions (gustatory and otherwise) that have found their way into the already-crowded world of Indian customs. In India, coffee and tea are commonly prepared in the same way: with whole milk, heaping spoonfuls of sugar, a hearty helping of masala (spices) and a pinch of the caffeinated plant in question. While tea is popular throughout India, coffee has its strongholds in the south; since I was in the southern state of Tamil Nadu, I opted for coffee. Even though we hadn’t met our hosts…
After living in Mexico City for a year, I can say it is noisy, smelly, crowded, polluted, exciting, exotic, endless and breath-taking. The ancient Aztec capital Tenochtitlan, now turned modern metropolis, has everything a visitor might be looking for, whether they are the intrepid traveler looking for adventures, the seasoned city-stroller searching for something new, or the rookie roamer taking his first steps into a new world of traveling. Mexico City has architecture that shows the stages of history from the Pre-Hispanic period through the Colonial days and until today. It has a history resembling a swashbuckling tale of adventure with its gold-hungry conquistadors, evil inquisitors, brave indigenous and idealistic revolutionaries. There are massive marketplaces selling everything from animals and insects, both dead and alive; fruits and vegetables of every color, size and taste; and all the knick knacks you could ever hope to buy for your friends placed on…
“We aren’t going to Huanggang City.” This is apparently how a kidnapping can begin. The first time I suspected something was wrong was when I heard this sentence, approximately 10 minutes after leaving Wuhan airport, Hubei province, Mid-East China. The decision I made to teach in China was a snap one, and I had no idea then that it would end up in what can only be described as “friendly kidnap.”
We were fortunate, especially with the current economic and housing crisis, to have sold our small apartment in New Hampshire for a bit of a profit. Since we had recently retired after over thirty years as educators, we now had the time, the incentive and the self-determination to follow our long-loved passion of slow traveling. In other words: we are senior citizens who will spend our junior year abroad. For the first time in our 45 years of marriage we were homeless, jobless, and after giving our 2003 Honda Hybrid to our daughter, also carless. What were we to do? Follow our passion!
There are two ways to experience Paris--as a visitor and as a local. I’ve done both. My first touristic Parisian holidays were amazing. When I passed a boulangerie, I would inhale the aroma of fresh bread deeply. When I visited pâtisseries, I smiled, because the pastries and chocolates were artistic, beyond edible. I didn’t want to blink. The images I’d fashioned over the years were real. I was constantly gazing up and around at the different buildings, absorbing all that centuries of architecture had to offer.
As an Australian who now lives in the ordered life of Singapore, my working life takes me to many places in Asia, some of which I have the opportunity to stay for a while. Among my favorites is Mumbai, India. The magic of Mumbai always gets my heart racing – it’s almost mindboggling how this city of nearly 20 million people (a shade under the population of my entire home country) manages to function. Despite the chaos that prevails at almost every single turn, the city not only functions but throbs with a vibrancy and potency that is unique to Asia.
Priya Jhaveri misses her dog. Jhaveri never spent one night without the black, furry beast lying across her blue, polka-dotted comforter, tickling her toes. But for the past two years, Jhaveri has been separated from her dog, family and home.
Tuesday, 01 September 2009
Brunei; that's somewhere near Dubai, isn't it?
Written by Charlotte Baird
An international career change I think it was the moment I heard the announcement aboard Royal Brunei Airlines flight BI0098 telling us that our plane was about to be blessed before take off that I began to concern myself with some of the potential issues arising from moving to a Muslim country for a minimum of a 2 year contract. I had agonised over the conservative (some say strict) dress and social code of conduct, the ‘dry’ conditions rarely seen outside the Middle East, and the fact that every single person I spoke to seemed convinced that Brunei was located somewhere off the coast of Dubai, rather than its true location perched on the northern coast of Borneo.
The story of how a backpacking couple turned a local watering hole into a nationally known restaurant and tour company Travelers in Bolivia looking to get away from the usual backpacking circuit are increasingly finding themselves in Sucre. Unlike the more popular destinations like Bolivia’s capital, La Paz, the salt flats near Uyuni and the mines of Potosi, Sucre offers the modern amenities of a large city, without losing the small town feel (about 200,000 residents).
I would not call myself a business traveler, nor would I claim to live abroad; implying distance from some hypothetical home base. Instead, my home, my work, and my life belong to a kind of transient village. As an acrobat with one of Cirque du Soleil’s touring productions, I have performed for audiences in thirty cities across the globe. It has meant adapting to different cultures and climates, foods, fashions, languages, and different rhythms of life.
If I had a nickel for every time I responded ‘hello’ to one of my students in the lunchroom, well, let’s just say that would solve a lot of my problems. Since those coins aren’t showing up on my doorstop anytime soon, I’m slogging through the days teaching English in rural Korea. Stepping off the airplane blind to the place, culture, or customs, I’ve come to take solace in the most unassuming of places - the school cafeteria.
The first time I met John he yelled in my face. It was the night I began volunteering at St. Catherine’s, and I was nervous. I stood outside the convent soup kitchen, unsure, but the waiting homeless men seemed to know what to do, and one of them rang the doorbell for me.
Ch-ch-ching-dong-dong. As soon as the familiar notes start, ears perk up. Ch-ch-ching-dong-dong. Within seconds, eyes start to flick around the room. Ch-ch-ching-dong-dong. Smiling people start to form a circle while clapping and swaying to the beat. Pavlov was right. It doesn’t take much. A bell for a dog, or five steely notes for a capoeirista, and off they go.
I had to get out of Cuenca. The six days of entrance exams (prospective students at my language school had to take an oral/written placement test prior to course registration) that I had just endured left me exhausted. I couldn’t bear to look at another language book or study guide – I needed a break. In my desperate search for a sound mind, I set out that Saturday morning in early January with two goals set before me: leave behind the frustrating Christmas vacation duties at Centros de Estudios Interamericanos (CEDEI) and make my first trip to the Cañar province. The Cañar province was a tiny, mountainous region just north of Cuenca. It held Ecuador’s most notable set of ruins, Ingapirca, and I was more than ready to make the trip.
Our village in Italy is called Lubriano. It is a "pass by" village. Tourists traveling to the famous hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio (called the "Dying Town" as it is collapsing into the Calanchi Valley below) stop at the edge of our village to gaze across towards their stunning destination no more than one mile away. Truth is, this medieval wonder of a town is also our view.
Tuscany, with its distinctive food and wine, gregarious people, ancient landscape and history forged by fact and fable, is a compelling attraction. And while package tours largely eliminate apprehension, they don’t necessarily ensure intimate connection with the culture. After a time, a bus window can become the frame in which the still life of the land is viewed with diminishing passion, and a day here or there soon dissolves into a week of misted memories. Inherent in routine is the danger of detachment.
When I introduce myself as an estudiante de intercambio, recognition floods people’s faces. They nod their heads. Yes, they have met others like me. There is a bin for us in their brains, and they drop me in alongside Dieter from Germany and Akiko from Japan. But the paradox of being a foreign exchange student is that although everyone can connect instantly with what you are, absolutely no one truly understands you. My orientation packet contains a chart showing the stages a foreigner goes through in a new country. After the “initial culture shock”, a “honeymoon period”, and an “adjustment period”, there comes “mental isolation” and the ominous note, “some travelers remain here”.
As the skies over Canada inevitably turn a light shade of gray, and the windowpanes are slowly conquered by an opaque frost, the urge to join the flocks of birds and head south for a few months becomes apparent. Having experienced over thirty Canadian winters prompted me to question, why do we live in such frigid temperatures when there are perfectly decent, warmer countries that exist a few hours away? This led to a year’s worth of research on international investment properties and the discovery of Costa Rica.
When I found out I was going to be working for a British tour company, I anticipated traveling to a typical European holiday resort. Images of basic hotels and groups of out-of-control youngsters filled my mind. Let’s face it, this was my first assignment, my plane ticket wasn’t going to say, “Destination: Barbados”. When the job description arrived in the post, I knew my fate for the next six months was sealed. As I nervously opened the letter and read my appointed location, I was unable to be instantly delighted or disappointed; I’d never even heard of the place.
Having been a student for two years at the University of Edinburgh I thought that I had pretty much seen all that University life had to offer me. I took up an offer made by the international office to spend one year studying at the University of Illinois in Urbana Champagne. I was not daunted at all by the prospect. Having travelled to the United States several times on vacation and having lived abroad in three different countries I considered myself to be well travelled and versatile, and to a certain extent I was. I wouldn’t loose my nerve on the twenty minute connecting flight that shook and rattled its way to my new home, nor did I loose my enthusiasm when I realised that I would be housed off campus in an enormous housing complex surrounded only by cornfields.
Years ago, there was a regular announcement in the New York Times classified section. "Learn five languages a year while striding for exercise, “it announced. That idea fascinated me; on the one hand, it seemed the ultimate in over-achievement; on the other, the thought of seeing the world by walking (though maybe not striding) and engaging with it in its own idiom(s) was just so appealing.
By most people’s standards, I had made it. I had a good job - glamorous even to some - great benefits and off-the-chart raises every year. By no means was I rich, but I paid all my bills and made it work. I had my own apartment in New York City, my life all planned out according to subway line, volunteer work, and a vibrant social life. I was living in the largest and arguably the most exciting city in the world, but something was still missing.
I had decided against going to Cuenca, but then Vince told me he had just arranged a ride with his neighbor, Oswaldo, in the back of a vegetable truck leaving Saraguro at 4 AM the next day. He was heading there in search of a turkey chick, and had plans to fatten that bird for a home-style feast come Thanksgiving in the jungle. Turkeys are somewhat rare in Ecuador, but Oswaldo was bound for one of the larger markets in Cuenca, and it had been reported anything could be found there, save the homemade shotguns sold much further north in Saquisili.
When I first met my new sister, she was afraid to touch me because of my skin. She had never seen a white person before. Her name was Rautia and she was six years old. When we were introduced, Rautia cowered behind her mother’s legs, only stealing quick glimpses of me from behind her mother’s turquoise dress. I said ‘Hello’ in Oshivambo like I had practiced, but it only frightened her more
The streets of Palermo are deserted. The food markets that, yesterday, were filled with tanned noisy locals, vegetables from Sicilian farms and fresh fish from the Tyrrhenian Sea are now silent littered alleys. No shops are open. No people walk the shady streets. It is Sunday in Catholic Italy.
I come from America, land of the free and home of the super-sized. We super-size, oversize, and jumbo-size everything from fast-food meals to roadways. One of the first tasks I faced living in Wales as an expatriate was learning to drive on roads the width of American bike paths.
Since coming to Boston a year ago, I’ve learned less of what I had expected to learn. But I have also learned many things I had never expected to learn. I’ve been living on the American campus of a Japanese university: Showa Women’s University.
As I stepped off the airplane and walked into the small, busy airport in San Jose, Costa Rica, the feeling of panic that I had thus far been able to ignore, hit me like a cheap blow to my gut. Every thought I had, every fearful and worrisome notion that filled my head could be summarized in one all consuming question. What the hell was I doing there?
The workload is extremely comfortable around here. With five different groups of students, we are able to use the same lesson plan all week long. On a Friday, this could result in a flawless execution of the lesson or a sick-and-tired-of-this-material drone. Of course we aim for the former.
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