“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.” John Lennon



From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

-Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

Stop and Smell the Tulips

We woke up early and started to walk towards the tulip
markets.  Along the way we stopped in
Urban Cacao for ‘breakfast.’

And to answer your question, yes they do have samples of
each of the twenty two chocolate bars that they sell.  I tried nearly half, for scientific purposes
of course.  I got two macaroons
(raspberry and salted caramel) and an espresso, then a few chocolates for
sustenance later in the afternoon.  

It was beautiful seeing the canals in daylight, walking
through the rain, drinking espressos, and snacking on macaroons.  It felt like something out of an alternate
reality and made me incredibly grateful for the experiences I have been offered
this semester.  We then arrived at the
tulip market, which I could smell from half a block away.

We wandered around the stalls picking out our favorite
flowers, knowing it would be impractical to buy them.  Inside the stalls purveyed different tulips
souvenirs as well a wide range of seeds.
I noticed in one stall that they had seeds for my two favorite flowers
and they were right next to each other. Lupines and sweet peas.  Sweet peas I love for their delicate
appearance and fragrance.  Aesthetically
they are my favorite flower and I wore them in my hair when I graduated high
school.  Lupines on the other hand hold a
deep emotional significance for me, which I will explain another time.  I grabbed a packet of seeds as a souvenir of
my weekend.

From there we went to a pastry shop (per my mothers
recommendation and a famous dutch cheese shop.
We got a pastry (for later).  The
pink circle with raspberries that’s second from the left.   It was champagne mousse on a little sponge
cake, with a raspberry jam center.  It
made an amazing afternoon snack.  Then at
the cheese shop, like Urban Cacao, they had samples of all the cheeses they
sell.  So of course I tried them all and
the rumors are true, when it comes to cheese the Dutch know whats up.

After this there was more food, when we met some of our
friends for late brunch at G’s, which came highly recommended by a friend from
home.  The atmosphere was very cool,
tablecloths of comic books, menus on old records, etc.  I had a double decker sandwich with cheese,
avocado, bacon, lettuce, and fried egg.
It was delicious long awaited breakfast food.  My only complaint is that it came with store
bought chips and the bread was not toasted – but then again I’m a food

After brunch we went to the Sex Museum in the red light
district, which l won’t discuss in detail, but
lets just say I learned way more than I needed to know.  Afterwards we spent time wandering through
the canals and parts of the old city.  Then we went to the Tulip Museum where we learned an in-depth history of the tulip and how it was used as currency and we got to smell the flowers.

Afterwards it was the time for our tickets at the anne frank museum, which I already discussed.  At this point we were exhausted and went back to our apartment to rest and eat the champagne pastry.  We then went in search of real dutch food an ended up in a cute restaurant by the river where we got to have bitterballen and hotchpotch which is the go to meat and potatoes dish.

Arrival in Amsterdam

Arriving in Amsterdam was a satisfying experience.  By my count I had flown through the airportat least half a dozen times without ever leaving.  It seems I have  had a lifetime of layover in Schipol airport,
and then on Friday I actually got to leave.
It felt a little like Tom Hanks in Terminal.  

Anyway we left, took the train into the city and walked to
our airbnb.  This was my first time using
the service and I had high expectations based on what my friends had told


This ominous staircase greeted us, which was representative
of our experience in this building.
Inside the apartment we found a curt Dutch woman sporting orange cowboy
boots and a barking Dalmation.  She
demanded her hundred euro cash deposit (we missed the fine print on that one)
and then got frustrated when we had to go to an ATM.   Once we finally got to the room we were
surprised to find it was not pictured on her site, it was the Harry Potter room
of the house: smaller, dirty, and more dysfunctional than the other.  We tried to reason with our host about false
advertising, at which point she transitioned from fluent English to broken
sentences.   The rest of our interactions
were equally charming, but not worth dwelling on.  We got in touch with airbnb, who was very
accommodating and gave us a refund for the weekend.  

 We escaped the apartment and went in search of dinner, but
at 9 oclock on a Friday night most places were packed.  We landed on Mazzo’s, a large modern Italian
restaurant with just enough garlic hanging on the walls to feel rustic.  Having gotten some good news from home
earlier in the day and battling through our housing escapades I decided to
treat myself.  I had a delicious glass of
red wine and truffle parmesan gnocchi.  


The picture does not do this dish justice.  The gnocchi was light and fell to pieces in
my mouth, coated in a thick parmesan béchamel sauce with large shavings of black
truffle.  It was an experience.  For one of the few times in my life I was too
stuffed for dessert, but I finished the meal with an glass of limoncello, which
is a very strong olfactory memory for me.
It takes me back to traveling the Amalfi coast with my brother and
father, getting a little tipsy, trying the family’s iteration of the drink at
every little restaurant we went to.  It’s
a smell that brings me a smile, and a great way to end the night.  


Anne Frank

Warning posts are no longer going to be in chronological order, sorry.

Our final act of tourism Saturday afternoon was the Anne Frank house, which was very emotionally confusing.  We we lucky enough to get last minute tickets, which meant instead of standing in a three hour line (in the rain) we walked up to a different door at our assigned time and walked straight in.  There are no pictures allowed in the museum, which was a little frustrating, but also allowed me to strictly focus on what was in front of me.  

We entered the first room which had two simple large quotes from Anne Frank’s Diary.  Then we went to the warehouse for the Jam factory that Otto Frank managed.  The ground floor was the warehouse, the second the office, and the third the annex.  The men who worked in the warehouse did not know about the people hiding in the annex. There was a video playing on loop that showed the Frank family before the war, and it was voiced with a young woman reading excerpts from the diary.  To say I got chills sounds cliche, but walking in I got a feeling of melancholy reverence that is associated with pieces of history that remind me of the dead.  At this point I separated myself from my friend and started to walk through alone.  

The next floor used to be the offices and discussed Optekta, the jam and pectin company which Otto worked for.  It gave a brief background to Victor Kugler, Miep Gies,Johannes Kleinman, and Bep Voskuijl who helped to hid the Frank family and their friends.   After this room the museum became noticeably more crowded, as if with each floor our freedom became more and more constricted. An accidental metaphor reminding me of the suffocating qualities of stagnation.  

The next room was the store room which contained scale furnished replicas of the secret annex.  When Otto converted the house to a museum in the 1960s he decided to keep the rooms unfurnished (the original furniture was removed by the Nazis) to represent the millions of people who never returned from the Holocaust.  For historical purposes the scale models were built, and the rooms were temporality outfitted with replica furniture so photographs could be taken, but it was then removed.

At this point I expected to be emotional, but I felt very flat inside.  The story of Anne Frank never provided me with any metamorphosis.  I read it after I had learned of the Holocaust and read many memoirs, so it did not impact me in a profound way that if effects many others.  Also when visiting the concentration camps I experienced visceral emotional reactions to the camps and I created this deep bond with a physical place, and since then there are very few places which illicit a reaction.  Somberness, respect, and sadness yes – but the chilling change that sweeps my conscious is absent.  This also causes me to feel guilt, as if I empathized better, felt more, cared deeply then I would be moved in these places.  

Next we arrived at the stairs leading to the annex, and by this point we were crammed together with no spaces to turn around or spread your arms.  We weren’t so much walking through a museum, but waiting for our turn to approach the next artifact.  The original bookcase from the 1940 still stands at the door to the annex, then we walked through the door to the hiding.  The first room was a sort of foyer or small entrance, which was followed by the room which Margot, Edith, and Otto Frank shared.  In the corner of the wall there were pencil marks, where the Franks had measured the girls growth for the two years they lived in hiding.  I then thought of my grandparents home, where on the door to the room I have stayed in since I was a child there are my height marks.   

As I proceeded through the rooms I tried to imagine my family’s existence in this space and the Franks. I walked through Anne and Fritz’s room which was plastered with pictures of movie stars, authors, comics, and art.  I thought of my own room, and the social artifacts I worship on my walls. I moved through the bathroom, and then the kitchen.  I ran my fingers over the stone sink and I imagined my mother cooking over the small gas stove, calling to us in hushed voices that dinner was ready.  I imagined our meals, usually boisterous, being muted by the fear of hiding.  Finally, I came to Peters room, the last room in the house and the only place with a sun roof.  All the windows had to be boarded, so the sun roof in the attic was their only access to sunlight for two years.  I stood for a while staring at the ceiling and wondered how I would survive on that little square of sky.

The remaining rooms were not part of the house, but strictly the museum.  The first room had an abbreviated history of the Shoah (Holocaust) and the Dutch book of names containing the name of everyone from the Netherlands who died in the Holocaust.  The book was turned to the Frank page, but it had a note saying the full book could be accessed at the information desk.  I was reminded in this room that the Franks were discovered August 4th 1944, fifty years prior to my birth. 

This was followed by a number of interviews with Otto Frank and details of his life after the war.  It must have been such a burden for him to publish the book.  Yes he made his daughter a hero, but after the Diary hit the presses in 1947 there would never be a day where his life was not consumed internally and externally by the death of his family.  Also it must be a heart wrenching experience to immortalize only one of your children.  By sharing her story, Otto accepted an enormous burden. 

The final rooms had Anne’s original diary, her short stories, and the beginning of her novel.  It also had an eight minute video of different visitors and celebrities discussing the significance of the house.  Including snippets from a fantastic speech given by Emma Thompson.  

I walked out of the museum, to the information desk and requested the book of names, because there was a very important woman on my mind.  A woman I met when I was in middle school, a Holocaust survivor who lived in hiding, who wrote a book that in many ways was my “Anne Frank Experience.” Her book humanized my understanding of the Holocaust at a young age, and she was one of the only people in her family to survive.  She was also from the Netherlands. I requested the book of names, and flipped to her surname and scrolled until I found her parents names, printed in clear black and white, with the names of the camps where they died.  And for a moment things slowed down and I was in a great deal of pain again.  Tears came to my eyes and holding the book dearly I wanted to weep.  Not for Anne Frank or the survivor I know necessarily, but I felt broken but the weight of the book, which contains 103,000 names.  I felt crushed by the thought then tens of thousands of those names and those stories have been permanently forgotten.  

I walked to the bookstore, picked out an image with Otto Frank, paid, and walked out of the museum.  Outside my breath felt thick and my vision blurred by potential emotional breakdown.  Something about that museum was painful and confusing.  Anne’s story is devastating, beautifully written, smart, humorous, and insightful – especially for someone of her age but at the same time she is not a martyr or a saint.  She is quite literally one of millions who tried to survive persecution based on inalienable aspects of their identity.  I thought how she is world famous, while her sister Margot and the other residents, who lived the same experience are rarely discussed.  Perhaps a particularly brutal aspect of the Holocaust is that it took away the individuality in suffering and instead turned millions of deaths into a part of history.  In many ways she was a normal teenage girl who thought of boys, her future, her family, and her society but she has been forced to represent something.  Around the world people know the story of Anne Frank which for many reasons is wildly important but I feel myself haunted by the rest of the names and experiences that will be never be committed to paper.

Walking out of the museum I was contemplative, worn down, and immensely despondent, and then I thought back to my favorite quote from the book/museum  "How wonderful it is that no one has to wait but can start right now to gradually change the world.“

Pirate, Guns, & Warships

A great deal has happened in the past week and I have not
been posting.  I was going to go to a
coffee shop one afternoon and catch up on my writing, but then I got a nasty
cold and everyday after class this week I have retreated to bed with a cup of
tea and a liter of ginger ale.  I am (mostly)
recovered now and currently on a flight from Copenhagen to Amsterdam, which
will be my first trip outside of Denmark.
I figure before arriving in a new country I need to catch you up.  In theory I am only supposed to make one post
a day to maintain your interest, but we’ve past that point so there is going to
be an onslaught this weekend. 

Last Thursday, during core course week, my class left for a
three day trip through northern Denmark.
We met at the bus at 6:45 in the morning, which was brutal.  Then we drove an hour to a Danish Naval
base.  As we drove onto base one of my
professors exclaimed “There’s my ship!” I thought to myself how could he pick
the ship he served on out of the hundreds of vessels that the navy
operates.  Turns out the Danish navy has
five warships, yeah five.  Three of them
were at this base.  

We went inside the
complex where we were greeted by two colonels who operate the missions hunting
pirates in the Gulf of Aden near Somali.
They briefed us for a little over an hour on how they hunt and identity
the pirate ships, the procedure after they are apprehended, and the various
rules of engagement.  One of our
professors had spent time in Aden working as the legal consultant.  I wont bore you with the specifics of piracy,
but for me it was fascinating.  

(Confiscated pirate attack ship)

After the brief we were split up into groups and shown
stations containing various kinds of evidence.
The first was the forensic team, who showed us how to dust for prints,
and the different powders that are used on different surfaces.  They also showed us the gear they must wear
to keep the evidence sterile.  He also
explained how they must train their men to deal with the potentially gruesome
conditions on the pirate ships, while focusing on the task at hand.  The ships are often in disrepair with no
functioning sewage system, so members of the forensic team will become
physically ill while trying to collect evidence.  After that I got to fingerprint myself which
was totally cool.

The next station had all of the confiscated pirate weapons
and the weapons the Danish naval teams use.
There were AK47s, grenade launchers, and combat gear.  They were all real and it was a little eerie.  I had never handled the
weapons before, but I was surprised as my classmates picked up the guns I
was able to guide them through how they are aimed and fired.  It was knowledge I did not know I had.  

Give college students unloaded, perfectly
safe weapons and they are going to start playing with them.  Soon enough my peers were pretending shooting one another
and attacking imaginary pirates all in good fun.   It however sent a chill down my spine.  I withdrew myself to a corner of the room, where I
found a fellow classmate who was having the same reaction.  We talked it over a while and we were both
uncomfortable for the same reason: playing soldier with weapons that had taken
peoples lives somehow seemed wrong.

After show and tell we had some coffees with the men, before
heading to our next destination.  I was
impressed by their compassion and cultural awareness for their work.  They can have the pirates as prisoners aboard
their ships for weeks at a time and they said it is much easier if they have
civil relationships with the captives.
Many of the men are muslim so they are provided with a Quran and the
Danes carry compasses so they can tell them which way towards mecca.  They are also very diligent about keeping
records, so when the men arrive in court there is documentation of their humane
treatment.  I was reassured and impressed
by the practices kept onboard.  The on
our way out I noticed this picture on one of the doors.

Which roughly translates from Danish “Let them eat cake!”


The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

-Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

Long Walks in the Park

Okay desperately trying to catch up with posts here. Last week was core course week, which means I had my ArmedConflict and Humanitarian Law class everyday.
The first half of the week we had normal class and trips through
Copenhagen.  Then Thursday through
Saturday we travelled through North Western Denmark together.  On Monday we had a four hour block course
from 8:30 to 12:30, luckily our professors provided some coffee and pastries to
help pass the time.  We spent the time
reviewing laws of sovereignty, international armed conflict, and
non-international armed conflict.  When
we left class it was shockingly sunny outside.
I am talking cloudless full blown rays of vitamin D.  I went home had a quick lunch and hightailed
it to the local park.  

Friedriksberg park is a beautiful park built around a
palace, that is a mere two blocks from my apartment.  I had not yet explored it, since grey dreary
days deter long walks.  I entered the
park, donned my sunglasses (woohoo), and started out on a path to my

The paths through the greenery
are winding and illogical, intended for perambulation and not anyone in a hurry
to get to their destination.  I walked
for about an hour through the grounds, carefully avoiding the geese.  

There is a river that runs through the park
and the sun was flitting across the surface.
It turns out hidden in the park there is the Copenhagen Zoo, which is
very expensive, but from certain points in the park you can approach various
animal enclosures for free.  So I went
and sat by the elephants for a while.  I also
walked by the palace, but decided to save the interior for another day.  

Finally I found a good bench, got
comfortable, and cracked the spine on a new book.   I am finally reading Mountains Beyond
Mountains, a non-traditional biography of Paul Farmer the founder of Partners
in Health.  The book is aggressive and
forces the reader to question their moral code and place in the hierarchy of
society, but more on that later.  I read
for a little over two hours, and then meandered home.  

Playing Tourist

Playing Tourist

Disclaimer: this post is heavy on military history andmemorialization…nerding out ahead. 

On Saturday one of my roommates had some friends from homein towns.  They wanted to see the city in
a weekend as fast as possible and this gave me a chance to tag a long and check
some of the things off my Copenhagen bucket list.   I met them at Nyhavn, which is probably the
most famous image of Copenhagen.  We then
walked to the happywall.  This is a
public art instillation, which was commissioned by the state to cover up
unsightly tourism.  Right now the metro
system is getting a major makeover which is projected to complete in 2019.  All over the city there are large murals and
interactive art to counteract the inconvenience of major construction.  Perhaps, it’s a tactic that Boston should
adopt.  At the happywall there are
reversible squares of wood, one side is black and the other is the colors of
the rainbow.  Visitors can use the tile
to spell out whatever they like.  I
spelled my name.

After that we had a quick lunch of smørrebrod.  From there we walked to Amalienborg church
and palace, where the royal family lives.  
The church is an ornate copper dome and the inside is equally

There is a foot path that runs from the entrance of the
church, to the center of the palace complex (the horse statue) and then out to
the river.  Today the opera house sits
across the canal forming a perfect line, however when the church and palace
were constructed it just wen out to the abyss of the water.  The alignment of the buildings shows the
people that the most important things in life are the relationship with the
church and the crown, and after that there is nothing else (except now

After that we walked a little farther along the water until
we reached Kastellet, a star fort.  As I
mentioned previously star forts are really interesting military innovations
from the 16th century.
Kronborg castle, which I visited earlier, was only a partial star.  Kastellet was built earlier and is a full,
original star.  The physical structure is
now gone, but all the original moats and land are still intact.  Technically these forts are called Trace
Italiennes and you will need a little military history to understand their
significance.   In medieval times every
lord had a castle so sieges became a massively important aspect of
warfare.  Europeans used gun powder to
fire pots de fer, which is the first metal cannon, but it was primitive and
ineffective.  Then when cannonball
technology developed it because very easy to siege forts and eviscerate
walls.  So in the 16th
century, in response to repeated sieges by Charles, the Italians developed the
Trace Italienne, which eliminated blind spots and high, fragile, vertical
walls.  The land was double moated and
built in the shape of a five pointed star.
Besides looking bad ass, the Trace Italiennes got rid of dead space and
had fortified walls that could absorb cannon fire.  Knowing this aspect of military history it
was extremely cool to see an original
Trace Italienne land construction.  Today
the land has been turned into a public park, with some decorative cannons.

In the center of the land there was a marble memorial.  From afar I couldn’t tell the focus, but as I
approached it became clear it was a war memorial.  It was constructed in 2011 to commemorate all
Danish lives lost in combat from 1948 to 2010.
It is officially titled the “Monument for Denmark’s International Effort
Since 1948.”  I could paraphrase the
plaque, but I will just give a direct transcript.  

“The monument consists of three sections, each with a focus
and function of its own.  There is no
actual center.  The first and largest section,
which is the setting for major official ceremonies, carries the following
inscription on the wall: ‘One Moment – One Place – One Person.”  The second section with the eternal flame –
in the form of a burning life-giving flame – is the space for those presently
deployed and for history.  The names of
the areas around the world where people have been or are presently deployed are
listed chronologically, beginning with Israel where the first UN observer was
sent in 1948.   The third section is a
memorial space for those left behind, fellow soldiers and others.  The names of the deceased are on its
walls.  This is a place of reverence,
remembrance, and reflection – space that brings closeness to the departed.  The wells are a constant motif throughout the
monument as a metaphor for a common human element: The life-giving place where
people meet, talk, find a sense of community, and develop cultures…This is a
monument for the living, in respect of the deceased and of those who took upon
themselves to carry out the tasks.”

I was blown away.
This is by far the most thoughtful and well-organized war monument I
have every visited.  It was visually
stunning as well as emotional impactful.
Also it was well marked and explained.
It is easy to miss, but I would highly highly recommend it to anyone
visiting Copenhagen.

Finally we walked to the mermaid statue, which is right next
to Kastellet.  We watched the sun begin
to set over the  water and then wandered

Carolina on My Mind

Tuesday night three young people were murdered in Chapel Hill.  Their names were Deah Shaddy Barakat, 23,  Yusor Mohammad, 21, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha, 19.  Violence wherever in the world hurts, but it causes a different kind of pain when it occurs in a familiar place.  In the past two years I have grown to love Chapel Hill as a home.  A safe haven of learning, community, and support – a place where something like this would never happen.  I never knew these people, who have been described as bright and passionate individuals, and now I never will.

After events like this it is easy to make speculation.  When a white man, with ties to an anti-religious group murders three muslims the word “hate crime” springs to mind.  Quick conclusions, however are dangerous.  After the 2011 Norway Attacks and the Boston Bombing, my father warned to never make any quick assumptions after public displays of violence.  Instead wait for the facts to percolate, because as we sit here uninformed in the aftermath there is very little we can do.  Our guesses can prove harmful.  Many thought the attacker in Norway was Arab, before his identity was released, which was incorrect.  It is very very easy to decide, preemptively that this is a religiously motivated hate crime, but I am going to do my best to wait.

The other thing that happens after violence close to home is that we separate ourselves from the perpetrator and attach ourselves to the victim.  We say I cannot relate to this man who committed this senseless act, he is not part of my America, he is different.  Instead I think it is important to realize that we do in fact share our America with Craig Hicks.  We allowed laws and politicians to exist that are soft on guns.  We participate, as active members, in a free society where this happened.  If we are to take ownership of the pain we must also take ownership of the act.

Furthermore, this tragedy is not “senseless.”  Yes it was cruel, awful, and wretchedly painful, but senseless is an overused word that implies an act beyond our mental comprehension.  This title is also dangerous, because it creates a world where only monsters are violent against the innocent and this law holds true until someone “normal” that we know joins this list.  In many ways violence does not discriminate – regardless of race, color or creed no social group is immune to committing or being victim of violence.  When we “other” ourselves from the perpetrators we put on our blinders to noticing potentials signs that people in our own communities displaying hazardous behavior.  

In many ways good and evil are subjective.  As I have discussed in an earlier post the title terrorist or hero all depends on who is writing history.  I am not promoting moral flexibility.  Here is what I know: murder is wrong.  What happened Tuesday night is horrible.  There is no debating that.  This man should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.  But he is not a killer because he is an atheist, ISIS does not murder because they are Muslim, and Anders Behring Breivik did not kill children in Øslo because he is Christian.  Truth be told I am not sure what drives people to do these things, but I try to understand them so I can prevent.  This is very different from sympathizing with them.  I am confident however that religion does not determine morality.  There are good and bad people with and without god.  In times like these we must consider and attempt to comprehend the perpetrator, but we must also turn to our community, and look for the helpers, look for solace in who and what we love.

After I transferred to UNC my sophomore year, I heard the phrase “Carolina Way” tossed around a bit.  It is meant to encompass the unique and close community that our university fosters.   At Carolina there is an community of passionate, empathetic, and driven individuals unlike anywhere else I have been.  Tonight I mourn with them and hold them in my thoughts, confident that our love for our town will have the strength to outshine this crime and I see that happening already.  People are raising money for a charity that Deah was passionate about and trying to create something beautiful in this mess.  You can donate here. Last night the Carolina community gathered in the pit for a candlelit vigil.  When I imagine my home, my people in Chapel Hill, this is what I see.  

(Photo Credit to UNC GAA)