FALL 2005
STUDY ABROAD
INFORMATION
SESSIONS
Note: All sessions are in the EMU International
Resource Center, unless otherwise noted.
AFRICAN COUNTRIES
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4
2 00 3 30 P M.
FRENCH-SPEAKING
COUNTRIES
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4
3:30-5:00 PM.
IE3 GLOBAL
INTERNSHIPS
(40+ countries)
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER S
3:30 5:00 P.M.
SPANISH-SPEAKING
COUNTRIES an)
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6
2 00 3 30 P.M.
ITALY PROGRAMS
THURSDAY OCTOBER 6
3:30 5:00 P.M
UK/IRELAND/
NETHERLANDS
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
12 00 1 30 P.M
C:MU Wblnnl Room
ITALY PROGRAMS
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
2 30 4:00 P M.
EMU Walnut Room
GERMANY & AUSTRIA
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
3:00-4:30 P.M
JAPAN & KOREA
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 11
3:004:30 PM
SPANISH-SPEAKING
COUNTRIES
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 12
]00-1 30 p m
SCANDINAVIAN
COUNTRIES
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 12
3 30 5:00 PM
AUSTRALIA
& NEW ZEALAND
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13
12:00-1:30 PM
GREECE/TURKEY/
JORDAN/ISRAEL
MONDAY, OCTOBER 17
1.30-3 00 PM
CHINA/TAIWAN/
HONG KONG
MONDAY, OCTOBER 17
3:004:30 PM.
INDIA/NEPAL/
MONGOLIA/TIBETAN
STUDIES
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18
12:00 I 30 PM
STUDY ABROAD FAIR
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 16
11:00 A M 4 00 P M
£ W U Pk Soon)
♦ JACKSON KELLOGG
(Report from the rfieM
A YEAR IN TASHKENT
Editor's Nolo: Post-bac student Jackson Kellogg worked in Kyrgyzstan as a Peace Corps volunteer from
2001 to 2003 before spending the past academic year in the Uzbekistan program.
Tashkent was built to be the model Socialist
City, a place that Soviet leaders could bring
leaders from other countries to tell them, 'This
all could be yours, if you embrace our system.
Most people think of camel caravans and
sand dunes when they think of Uzbekistan
but, in fact, Tashkent is a very modern city,
complete with a subway system, freeways and
high-rise housing developments. It has an
excellent and inexpensive cultural life: it is
possible to see a symphony concert or a
famous opera almost every night of the year.
With a population of 2.3 million, it was the
fourth largest city of the Soviet Union, right
after Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev. It was a
Soviet center of heavy industry and is famous
for its manufactured products, ranging from
airplanes to tractors.
Tashkent's subway system is perhaps the
world's most beautiful. The Soviet Union's best
artists and craftspeople labored for years to
decorate the palatial stations, making lavish
use of gold, marble and hand-painted ceramic
tile. The station "Independence Square" is
decorated with polished marble and lit with
crystal chandeliers.
Another station near my apartment,
"Kosmonatlar," pays tribute to the Soviet space
program. Large paintings of medieval Uzbek
astronomers and modern Soviet cosmonauts
appear to float in space against a blue tile
background. Like much of the architecture in
Tashkent, the subway has a bold, futuristic
style, although it also seems a bit retro — as if
from a cool, 1950s sci-fi movie.
I lived in a modern part of Tashkent in a
comfortable one-bedroom apartment inside a
four-story mid-rise built for KGB employees in
the ecffy 1980s. I had cable television, hot
and cold running water, and dependable
heating and air conditioning. My tree-lined
street had an electric tramline. I lived within a
fifteen-minute walk of two metro stops, a
medium-sized supermarket and a large,
covered market. Quality produce was
available all year for less than I would have
had to spend in the United States.
Occasionally, shiny red apples from
Washington State even appeared in the
supermarket!
Tashkent is a cosmopolitan city with people
of at least eighty distinct nationalities
represented. In addition to Uzbek - the
language I had come to Tashkent to study -
everybody speaks some Russian, and some
people speak Russian as their first language.
Still, despite 150 years of Russian influence,
almost all Uzbek people speak the Uzbek
language.
I studied Uzbek with three different tutors
for at least three hours every day except
Sunday. One tutor specialized in grammar,
one in literature, and the third made "field trips"
with me around Tashkent, providing
conversation practice in everything we saw.
On one trip, we visited the Old City and
knocked on doors, asking to see the inside of
the old houses. My tutor assured me that this
would be a fine thing to do and, in fact, most
of the people invited us in.
Traditional houses in Uzbekistan, like houses
in most parts of Central Asia and the Middle
East, are focused on the interior space.
From the street they are very plain and mostly
look the same. A contrast exists between a
severe plain wall and metal gate on the
outside, and the pleasant courtyard and
comfortable house on the inside.
When I visited homes in chilly November,
colorfully dressed women were sweeping
away the snow. As I write this in August,
I can imagine them sitting in a courtyard,
drinking green tea under the branches of
an apple tree. ■
JAPAN
continued from page I
minutes, a train for five, and then walked the
rest of the way.
In the beginning, I felt privileged to be
placed in a comparably urban home-stay, sure
that my immersion experience in Shinjuku
would quickly shed light on my inexplicable
draw to the towering metropolis.
Five weeks in, I hated it. I hated the crush of
people, the overwhelming blur of light, and the
indecipherable smells. Most of all, I hated the
noise. From every street corner, shop girls and
competing merchants screamed bargain prices
over megaphones. In department stores and
restaurants, employees hollered "Welcome!"
and "Please give us your business!" to
potential patrons. Even the white noise of
traffic was punctuated by train crossings and
motorcycle engines. Lost in a sea of chaos
where I barely spoke the language, I found
myself cracking at the edges for want of an
uninterrupted train of thought.
I had to find myself in Tokyo or risk going
under.
I was in shock and I couldn't see it.
The world around me: signs, shops, cars, and
people - all seemed so deceptively normal,
so Western. I would fall into an illusive state of
comfort, just to have the ground drop out from
underneath me when something or someone
didn't proceed in the way I expected. Japan,
I thought, was out to get me.
Then one day, toward the end of fall, I
found myself stopped in front of a shop, a very
Japanese building, which I had passed many
times before but never seen. The shop was
closed, the windows covered with paper
yellowed by the patina of age. Like most
Japanese family-run businesses, it was small,
set adjacent to the street with no yard or
driveway so to speak, and had an upstairs
residential quarters.
What first struck me about this building was
the way it sort of leaned over onto the much
larger concrete structure next door, as if it
needed support. In fact, it was penned in on
both sides by newer, bigger, better buildings,
and with just a few plastered-over earthquake
cracks.
There seemed to be nothing so
extraordinary about this shop that it should
have entranced me so, until I realized that it
was made entirely out of wood. It was a
"survivor" of the extensive Tokyo fire bombings
in World War II. Wooden buildings, except in
parts of the Shitamachi (lower city), are a rare
find. But here, nestled among everyday
businesses, was this remnant, still standing
as if forgotten.
From that day, I stopped more and more,
often with camera in hand, to stare in wonder
at some lovely little contradiction I'd found.
Many times I confused passers-by by gawking
into traffic mirrors placed at complicated
intersections. I was captivated by the
reflection of everyday life, past and present.
Tokyo is growing, expanding while it
changes, forgetting while it remembers. There
are tens of thousands of tiny Shinto temples
and Buddhist shrines sprinkled throughout the
back streets, some as new as the city sprawl
and others patronized by the same families
for generations.
And so, with some chagrin, I learned to put
up with the construction outside my window.
It is, after all, the law of returns in the city.
Instead of spending late Saturday mornings in
bed with a pillow over my face, I got up and
got on the train. Despite the efficient public
transportation options of the Tokyo trains,
subways and busses, I walked many more
miles during the ten months I spent in Japan
than I ever have or probably ever will.
I took my camera around the main city
circuit to Shibuya, Harajuku, Ginza, Tokyo,
Takadanobaba, Shinbashi, Akihabara and
more. I poked around back alleys, into
temples, and even the red light district.
Once I got started, I couldn't get enough.
More than anything, I got to know Shinjuku.
The crazy business, shopping and pleasure
district that is the setting for Sophia Coppola's
Lost in Translation was also my playground
and my backyard. At first I could only spend
an hour or so out in the city before becoming
overwhelmed by it all. I felt faint, I had
migraines, I sweated profusely. But as time
passed and the months rolled by, I spent more
of my days and nights wandering the streets of
Shinjuku than I had the streets at home.
My host family was appreciative, almost
overly so, of the time I spent touring their city.
They saw it as no small feat when I walked
somewhere rather than taking the train, or
bought anything from a sweater to a commuter
pass by myself. Whenever I showed them my
photographs, they ooh'ed and aah'ed, though
what impressed them wasn't the content itself
but that I found so much interest in things they
took for granted.
The more time passed, the more I wanted
to see. Instead of becoming gradually more
ordinary, my life in Tokyo seemed more
extraordinary each day. Every meal was an
experience; every bus ride, a journey.
Long before I returned to America, I knew that
I had found the wonder needed to transform
everyday life into something beautiful and
unique. ■