CHILE

It’s a beautiful autumn day in Santiago, Chile, a relief after the oppressively hot summer. Students in uniforms sprawl on the lawns after classes get out. The stress level feels significantly lower than in Toronto, the temperature quite a bit higher, and there’s no snowfall or wind chill. Santiago is an enormous city with enormous problems, but overall my experience here has been really incredible, and it’s going to be hard to leave.

This semester I’m sharing a house with five other young people: one from Holland, two from France, and two from Chile. We get along well and make good use of the grill in the backyard. Empanadas, meat, and avocados are staples, alongside wine, cerveza (beer), and pisco, a liquor. (Also noteworthy is fun schop, a mix of beer and Fanta, and ponche, wine with fruit.) When I’ve had enough of the empanadas, I turn to the central market where I can find a wide selection of fresh and cheap fruits and vegetables, and where I’ve adopted a number of Chilean grandmas who prepare typical dishes for me and have taught me what (little) I know about Chilean cuisine. I’ll fix you a mean cazuela when I get back.

Chileans typically aren’t very religious, but there are two things they hold sacred: Sunday and the lunch break. Sundays are my favorite part of living in Santiago. Ironically, it is the day when everything is closed, and the not-so-employed get to work—students, artists, rebels, hippies, and rastas displaying whatever they can sell on blankets in the park around the Art Museum, forming a massive alternative and temporary shopping mall. Street performers abound on Sundays, clowns attract big crowds as Santiago’s lively circus community performs in the streets. The Art Museum is free and open to the public, and the entire atmosphere of this downtown park is really exciting.

Lunch had nearly disappeared from my life in Toronto as I ran to the library to work with all the other gringos, while the rest of the world enjoyed a leisurely threecourse meal. Chilean university culture is incredibly laid-back. After a rough test in the morning, everyone in the class pitches in to buy enough beer and food so that sitting in the fields around the Faculty of Social Sciences, we forget about the test.

Classes are good even if they rarely start on time. My favorite subject is Mountaineering, offered through the Faculty of Architecture, which takes us on walks through the Andes on Saturdays. I’m going to miss the music, walking down the street and hearing cumbia and reggeton coming out of the house and car windows. I’m going to miss the crazy Chilean slang, but I’m going to be happy when I can go an entire conversation without any “Repite por favor.”

—SARAH RAFSON IS A THIRD-YEAR ARCHITECTURE STUDENT ON EXCHANGE IN SANTIAGO, CHILE

AUSTIN, TEXAS

Most of the time we drive all day. From Washington to Brooklyn, Boston to Vermont,Myrtle Beach to New Orleans. Every day we drive, every night we play a show.

I’ve been playing in a band for years now, and this is our first major tour. Forty-two shows in six weeks, in 13 states and five provinces. Every night spent in a different motel, sometimes in the back of our van. Eating our two meals a day at gas stations and rest stops.

When you’re in a band, going on tour means that you’ve been able to turn your music into an occupation. That’s been our goal ever since we started playing together. This is what I didn’t graduate this year for. This is the future we’ve always wanted.

I never knew it would be so horrible.

Touring is hopefully the closest I’ll ever come to being in a war. We’ve only been gone two weeks, and already, certain situations have reached a breaking point. For instance, I am out of clean underwear. I have eaten one piece of fruit in 13 days, and the thought of not seeing my girlfriend for another four weeks seems unbearable. The used van we bought the day before we left has a crack in the gas tank, and we’ve been leaking fuel ever since we left. Drop a match behind our van, and you could probably light a trail of fire all the way back to our Etobicoke garage.

We’re hemorrhaging money.

Throughout all this there are the shows, which no matter how tired we are, we have to play well. I once heard a musician describe touring as going up in front of a different crowd every night and lighting yourself on fire for them. That is exactly what it’s like. Every show burns you up completely, and you have to do it all again the next day. We drive further and further south into the States, watching the seasons change in the course of a handful of hours. The snow on the side of the highway disappears, and the forests give way to bayous. “You”s turn into “y’all”s, and by the time we get to Louisiana, it’s almost 30 degrees. As we get closer to Texas, there is a growing feeling that something is happening, that people are moving with us. Fifteen-passenger vans hauling trailers begin to dot the highways. At gas stations in Alabama, dozens of pairs of skinny jeans stand out against the local fashion. There is a migration underway.

Everyone is going to Austin, where each year in March, herds of musicians from all over North America gather for the South By Southwest music festival. There are blocks of nothing but bars, each one with a band booming through the open storefront. Musicians play all day, and by 9 p.m., 6th Street is an absolute cacophony, a raucous blur of ripped jeans, tattoos, and short shorts. The streets are mostly closed off so we hail a pedi-cab. Four of us pile in the back on each others laps and laugh hysterically as our driver, who looks to weigh no more than 120 pounds and has legs like matchsticks, strains to move us through the streets. Through our laughter we urge him forward, but he breaks out laughing himself every minute and stops pedalling, leaving us to drag to a stop in the middle of intersections while car horns honk.

Our own show goes well enough to make us feel good about being here, and we spend the days drinking and the nights going to as many concerts as we can. So many of our favourite bands are here, and we never feel disappointed at the end of the night when we take a cab back to our hotel on the outskirts of the city. We dive into the freezing swimming pool in our underwear, and by noon the next day we’re on a boat drifting down the Colorado River with drinks in our hands.

Austin has been our oasis for the last four days, and this is the first place we’ve been since New York City that I am sad to see go. But in 12 hours we’ll be in the back of our van again, hurtling down the interstate towards another bar and a lonely motel. But we’re resigned. It’s always time to leave.

—BEN SPURR IS CONQUERING THE WORLD (OR AT LEAST TEXAS) WITH HIS BAND, THE COAST

ZIMBABWE

The morning is cold and we are up early, on our way to Matopos National Park for rhino stalking. The guides in Zimbabwe are some of the best-trained in Africa, and Andy, who has been leading people through the bush for the better part of 30 years, proves no exception.

Our first sighting are zebra, just off the dirt road. Andy motions for us to get out of the car. With some trepidation—this is the first time into the bush on foot for all of us—we hop onto the ground, and edge toward the zebra. They allow us to get close before one spooks and they gallop away.

With a rifle slung over his shoulder, Andy strikes a frightening silhouette (akin to the Exterminator from Jumanji, only younger.) He gets excited at something on the ground, and we all gather around. Rhino dung. He picks it up. It’s fresh. He grows more excited. We are all a bit disgusted. We move on.

Only a few minutes later, we find what we’ve been looking for: a family of white rhino, a mother, baby, and an adult bull. We stalk toward them, coming so close to the mother and baby that you could almost reach out and touch them.

Andy raises his voice to get the bull’s attention. If the male knows we are there then we won’t scare him. Unfortunately, this bull dislikes us. He huffs and paws the ground. His horn is facing us. You can sense the tension in the group, how we take a collective step back. Andy reassures us, making a metallic sound with his rifle, as if preparing to shoot. The rhino starts toward us, shaking his head now. Andy shouts and waves the rifle. Finally, the bull submits and turns away. Panic over. It is impossible to get bored watching the rhinos, but all too soon Andy tears us away to see other game: antelope, spiders, birds, hippo s, and crocodiles, all at close quarters.

We leave Andy to explore the history of the Matopos. After a gruelling trek uphill, we arrive at a cave with bushman paintings over 6,000 years old. These are the “stick man” and animal paintings I remember from textbooks, but never imagined I’d actually see. It’s amazing how I can get up close and personal to ancient items and wondrous animals in a way I never can back home.

Further up the mountain, we are treated to the best views in Africa. Matopos Park from above is a stunning mosaic of granite boulders balanced precariously upon one another. The setting sun begins to cast an orange haze over the rocks, but I am not allowed to enjoy it. We hurry to return to the cars before dark. Even going back to the tent is a thrill; tomorrow is Victoria Falls and if half the rumours are true, I need all the energy I can for an adrenaline-packed weekend.

—AMY MCCULLOCH IS TAKING A YEAR OFF TO TRAVEL AND WRITE FOR HER BLOG, AMYTRAVELS. WORDPRESS.COM

BERLIN

I decided to come to Berlin after I spent the summer studying here for two months. I had one more year of my undergrad left, and I wanted to take a year off between finishing university and starting law school. The visa process was easy enough: in September 2006, Canada and Germany made a deal—Canadians could live and work in Germany for up to a year and vice versa—called the working holiday. All I had to do was fill out some forms (that specially asked if I had ever been arrested, and if I was a terrorist, in yes or no format), and give up my passport for two weeks.

I love living in Berlin, but it’s still a developing city with high unemployment and poverty. Credits cards are never accepted, everything is closed on Sunday, and there remain “dead zones” in the city where the Berlin Wall used to be. All the same, the city has a definite charm that can only be experienced by those that live here. It is not a city to come to for a few days, because it’s hard to be able to take it all in. Berlin is enormous, it’s one of the largest cities in Europe and one of the cheapest places to live. Berlin is a city where anything goes. Practically a third of the people here do some form of “art,” and it’s so inexpensive to live that almost anyone can be an artist. One never feels judged living here. People have face tattoos, there are punks in their 40s who never seem to grow up, bars and clubs that are open all night for everyone (here, queer clubs are not necessary because all places are considered both straight and queer friendly). Berlin is a place where all worlds seem to meet. In my building alone, I live next to a dance studio, a mosque, and a prostitute. In my first week I heard the people in the studio dancing to Justin Timberlake’s “Sexyback” and Muslim prayer at the same time, now I refer to my apartment as “The Sounds of Berlin.” There are many foreigners here that come to live for a while and just never leave—Berlin can do that to you. I came here alone without knowing anyone or how to speak German, and though it was hard at first, the city has made a definite mark on me, and I know I’ll really miss it when I leave.

—MORGAN KOCH GRADUATED WITH A POLITICAL SCIENCE DEGREE IN JUNE.

TAIWAN

There’s a curious phenomenon happening in the beautiful sprawling city of Kaohsiung, Taiwan. It’s the Canadians. More specifically, the Torontonians. For whatever God-given reason, there are a lot of us here, and I mean a lot. In Kaohsiung’s growing community of foreigners, most of whom work as English teachers, it’s a wonder that we’ve found a bit of home. And what brings us so far from our snow-covered hometown? Perhaps a shared sense of adventure, restlessness, and exploration that can only be satisfied by roaming.

Saturday 11:23

The sun is high and I can see waves of heat coming off the pavement; it’s going to be a hot day. But this hardly matters as I’m inside, collapsed on my desk after a rough two hours of teaching English to a group of 13-year-olds who, on a Saturday morning, just wanted to go home and back to bed. I lay my head down on my stack of yet-to-be-graded homework books and let myself doze for a while. Despite my exhaustion (which, to be honest, is partly due to a slight hangover), I’m actually elated. I have another class of reluctant 13-year-olds to teach in a few hours, but come 3:30 p.m., I’ll get into my little red Lancer and zoom-zoom into the sunny Taiwanese countryside. A group of us is going to Baolai, a hot springs town that’s only a two-hour drive from Kaohsiung. We will stay at a resort for the night, hitting the hot springs in the morning and touring the countryside for the rest of Sunday. But now, the bell blares, and my class is waiting. I shake myself awake and stretch out my legs.

Saturday 21:45

I turn on my high beams so I can navigate the twists and turns of the unlit country roads. With three friends (and their luggage) in tow, I blare my horn before every turn as we climb the narrow, mountainous roads. A mixture of tired excitement, we are focused on the road before us. We’ve been driving for nearly two hours, and we know we’re almost there. Looking out the window to my left, there are clusters of light against the darkness. In a matter of minutes, we will cross a lantern-strewn bridge and stop at Baolai’s only 7-11 for beers. The hot springs await.

Sunday 14:13

We are a convoy—three scooters, four motorcycles, and one little red Lancer strong. The day is clear and sunny, and the country roads precipitously beautiful. We are rested, rejuvenated, and winding our way home to Kaohsiung when we find ourselves stopping at a monastery. A stray dog fiercly guards the entrance, barking a challenge as we approach. Inside, a monk lays down vegetables in the noontime sun to dry, while another walks the edge of the courtyard examining the statues of the gods that border the monastery. We feel a little hesitant, a little clumsy, a little too big and loud for this quiet place. But their nods of acquiescence to our cameras, to our chatter, to our very presence are enough to humble and welcome us. When we leave the monastery, the dog is nowhere to be seen, and we climb aboard our vehicles. We reassemble into our straight-line convoy, and head off for the next destination. There is no other feeling like this one, of absolute freedom, of lack of responsibility, of endless road, of awe at a country you hardly understand but fully appreciate.

—SANDY HUEN LIVES IN TAIWAN, WHERE SHE TEACHES ENGLISH