HELP FEED HUNGRY BABY ANIMALS!

It's been awhile since I last blogged about anything, but this cause is incredibly worthwhile.

Spring is on the way and Urban Wildlife Rehabilitation, Inc. in Springfield, MA is gearing up for a busy 2013 baby season! 90-95% of the small mammal babies that we receive have lost their mothers, who were chased off, relocated, or killed by humans. Here is an opportunity to begin reconciliation with the animal kingdom!







We urgently need to raise $1800 by March 15 to purchase milk replacement formula to feed the babies for the first 8-9 weeks of their lives. In 2012, we cared for 124 and, this year, we expect many more.
                                                                       Urban Wildlife Rehabilitation, Inc. is a registered 501(c)(3) charity that receives no grants or federal funding for the critical work that we do. We are counting on donations from caring, concerned individuals like YOU to help us save these babies!

Please make a donation by clicking on the 'donate' button on our webpage: 
http://www.urbanwildliferehab.org/donations.htm. 

Please spread the word! Tell your friends and invite them to our Facebook event! https://www.facebook.com/events/466648800066875/?fref=ts

Check out the rest of our website to learn more about our organization and the work that we do!

You can also find us on Facebook and sign up to receive notifications about all of the new patients arriving and other excitement happening at Urban Wildlife Rehabilitation, Inc.! https://www.facebook.com/pages/Urban-Wildlife-Rehabilitation-Inc/422694711131757?fref=ts

Thank you in advance for your support!

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

I am tired of goodbyes, by which I condemn myself to an isolated existence; as I leave family and friends scattered across the globe in the wake of my departures and their own.  I know that their loving energy reaches out in an effort to close the distance between us, as if to embrace and assure me that I am not truly alone.  No longer do I have a sense as to where home lies; for if home is where the heart is, I have carelessly left it in a myriad of places with unlikely caretakers, so that it is simply muddled in confusion over this matter, which has been years in the making.  Or perhaps, in giving it away piece by piece and hiding bits away in such obscure nooks, which I now cannot specifically recall or access, I wonder if anything remains to excavate from within this fleshy shell; while I simultaneously ponder if ever ‘goodbye’ will hold any other meaning than ‘so long forever...’

Unlikely Assailants

The White Stork pair may not nest here for the tranquility of country life or the sweet deal that they landed on the best perch in town. Instead, they receive protection from vigilant sentinels, in exchange for sacrificing some peace and quiet, as the Barn Swallows are constantly jabbering while on duty.

I know, being protected by a swallow may seem far-fetched, considering its small size, but stick with me on this. One may not be able to do much more than provide a tasty meal for a ravenous raptor, but in hordes, they are something to reckon with. Here in Gugny, when they have tired of flying (which is quite rare) and congregate along the power lines, I feel like I have stepped into Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, as they leer down at me.

But they don’t just look intimidating. The other day, I witnessed an unidentified falcon in hot pursuit by a swarm of swallows. He swooped in low, miscalculating the angle, and narrowly missed side-swiping the hostel building opposite me. The poor guy made a shaky recovery and glided below the roof, aiming to perch on a nearby fence, so that he could get his wits about him. Yet, this tactic ultimately failed, as he was only granted a few seconds of reprieve, before his assailants swooped in after him.

The following day, another unidentified raptor was scoping out the scene from a comfortable distance overhead. Upon spotting him, the swallows took off screaming vulgarities and chased him away within a matter of minutes. Hours later, a dot in the sky appeared. Even with my binoculars, I couldn’t identify any distinguishing features. He soared in a few easy circles, before disappearing from view. But just because I couldn’t see him any longer, didn’t mean that the threat had diminished. So again, the swallows were on the offensive.

It seems to me that as long as the swallows remain content with their own accommodations, the storks will not need to be particularly vigilant or even lift a feather in defense of their territory. Unless, another stork gets too close, that is.

So what do you think? Does it seem probable or have I been hanging around the birds too much?

Who Would Want to be an Apple?

Fall is in the air. The sun is bright and warm, but doesn’t produce a sweltering heat, which may also be eased by the gentle breeze that flows unhurriedly by. The air smells of earth and apples, plenty of which have already fallen from the trees; forced from the comfort of a sturdy, lush green home, surrounded by fresh, young companions to a morbid mass grave site, only a short distance below, where they face inevitable rot and decay, which completes their circle of life at the conclusion of this harvest season.

Yet, some may escape this unpleasant end, in exchange for another. Those that may be salvaged, whose bruises have not spread like an infection, penetrating to their core, and whose flesh has not been claimed as home to any number of burrowing insects, are carefully scanned, turned hand over hand, tenderly dusted of grit and grass, and placed snug in a bucket among other fallen comrades.

Now, clustered together in anxious anticipation in a single room with only a skylight, they await a plethora of alternative fates, which depend upon the creativity of their grim reaper and the availability of ingredients. Perhaps, they will be chopped into pieces, drowned, and boiled into an unrecognizable pulp. Or maybe, once in bits, they will be drenched in a sticky substance, suffocated between two sealed, heavy sheets, and endure a steadily intensifying, roasting heat.  Or, they may even be pressed between heavy weights until they burst from the unbearable pressure, their innards splattering and juices flowing freely. Some may be even less fortunate, meeting their end slowly and agonizingly, one chomp at a time. But I think that the “best” way to go is really a matter of preference.

There are how many verbs...?

I spent this weekend immersing myself further in the nuances of Polish grammar. Upon my first introduction to verbs earlier this summer, I was quite relieved to learn that there are only three verb tenses, compared to the myriad of simple, perfect, and what have you tenses that exist in English. Yet, I soon discovered that each verb falls into one of four classes, which determine conjugated forms, based on person and number. There’s no easy way to tell to which class a verb belongs, as in any language, there are always exceptions to the rules. Also, the infinitive, or root, of the verb can undergo changes that make it look like a completely different word. Okay, I accepted that and dealt with it.

Recently, I started noticing some “discrepancies” among the web resources that I’ve been using, such as two different verbs having the exact same meaning. I expressed my frustration to my co-worker (who by chance has a degree in the Russian language) and she proceeded to explain to me all about aspect in Slavic languages. So there are three verb tenses, right? Add to that imperfective and perfective aspect, which express actions in progress or with an unknown end and actions that have been or are scheduled to be completed, respectively. This means that there are actually two words for every verb, some of which don’t even resemble each other. And, verbs that indicate motion have two imperfective forms for on-going (determinate) and frequentative (indeterminate) action. At least these still have only one perfective verb.

As a result, I passed the weekend reading up on these topics and familiarizing myself with all of the possible forms of the verbs that I have learned thus far. The next challenge will be using them properly in sentences!

Homesickness Sets In

Flashback to...11 April 2010

I felt a tinge of homesickness today, as I was wandering the streets of Baltimore.  I found myself yearning for a familiar face and a warm embrace from someone, for whom I care.  I’m unsure if the same length of time has passed, as when I felt homesick in Seattle, or if it’s shorter this time.  Since I came to appreciate home more after the former trip, the longing for it and the people special to me is a bit stronger. 

Yet, I certainly don’t want to allow myself to settle.  I haven’t pushed myself far enough yet to remain at home.  I got a taste of what it is like without my comfort zone, without the familiar, without immediate support; and while it was exciting and refreshing to be so independent, I recognized the value and importance that the aspects of home have in my life.  I need to keep teaching myself how to appreciate and value the familiar, the new, and the unknown. 

One of the reasons I took my last trip by myself was because I wanted to get used to the idea of being alone, since there won’t always be a familiar face to accompany me on my journeys.  Yet, there is also value in sharing experiences, sights, and adventures with another individual, which creates a new level of meaning.  I know that I am capable of striking out on my own, and that I will not falter in making the right decision for myself.  I would simply prefer a companion with whom to enjoy life; discover, explore, and contribute positively to the world.

Quirks of Biebrza Valley

-Wild boar and moose skins mounted on the wall add to a room’s decor.
-After one shot of vodka, you’re obligated to have at least five more.
-Gugny’s tap water tastes strangely similar to the scent of marsh water.
-Pride is taken in White Storks nesting anywhere from telephone poles to chimney tops.
-Elaborate burial sites look more like art exhibits.
-Bus stop huts for a bus that I’ve seen only once.
-Immense trust is put into visitors to honor national park restrictions.
-When someone gets lost in the marsh, the police stop at the hostel for a coffee break.
-The happening weekend hang out spot for young men in Trzcianne is in front of the adjacent markets. 
-Prominent crosses and shrines stationed in front of every other house as a symbol of Catholic pride.
-Communist era instant coffee in the market, which is only 30% coffee and the rest a type of grain.
-All of the produce in small, independent stores is locally grown, even though it’s not advertised. (I’m not sure about the bananas though.)
-House pets and cows freely wander the streets.
-Crosswalks are merely for decorative purposes on the streets.
-No matter how fast you seem to be driving, several cars will still overtake you.

Status Update

On Friday, I paid a visit to a physical therapist in Białystok.  Actually, two of them spent about an hour studying my knees and my x-ray, and guiding me through some restorative stretches and exercises.  I don’t know if my case was just that interesting, but also, one had a better understanding of English, and did much of the translating. 

They determined that both of my patellas are “naturally” rotated inwards.  (I don’t know if this is a birth defect or a result of improper usage over the years.)  This irregularity would cause extra strain on my knees from disproportionate muscle usage and improper joint movement; never mind the added pressure of hiking in the challenging conditions of the marsh. 

Both physical therapists were confident that I would heal by following a regular exercise routine, designed to shift the patellas back into place, and simply because I am young.  Yet, this process will take months, which I had already gathered from speaking with others here, who had previously suffered from knees problems.  This, combined with my relapse of pain and a more regular Aquatic Warbler breeding season, which is winding down, will prevent me from getting back to work, as I had been hoping.  Now, I’m trying to figure out my next move and how to push forward from this.

Silent Summer

The heat wave has since broken, to be replaced by an ambiance reminiscent of autumn, complete with the scent of a hearth fire wafting through the air.  Occasionally, the sun peeps through the thick, graying clouds, while a fresh breeze ushers them along, initiating a rustling of leaves. 

Yet, the birds do not stir as they did a few weeks ago, during early summer.  It seems still too soon for migration to begin, but they must have gone somewhere.  The Yellowhammers’ requests for “one piece of bread with no cheese” have become fewer, perhaps tiring of the same bland meal.  The spirited call and answer of the Great Tits have become more infrequent.  Just yesterday, I spotted the first individual that I’ve seen in weeks.  I admit that I haven’t been out and about much recently, but the Yellowhammers and the Great Tits, in particular, could once be heard through the open bedroom window or from the doorstep. 

The Barn Swallows, on the other hand, have doubled their numbers, which, they may use to intimidate the other birds away from their turf, as they congregate upon the telephone lines, just next to the hostel’s driveway.  A few days ago, they were holding parties as wild as those had by the college students, who were counting singing male Aquatic Warblers, with droves of them twirling and swooping through the air, chattering endlessly.  Yet, even yesterday, they seem to have hunkered down, being partied out.

Getting Acquainted

Flashback to...April 2010

The other interns seem friendly and enthusiastic about being here with other young biologists.  We have been getting along well so far.  Most of them are Irish and British, and another woman is from Vancouver, Canada.  With this cultural exposure, I’m expecting to come home with a bit of an accent as well as some new terminology.  Apparently, not everyone is staying for the entire season, as some will be starting jobs and Master’s programs in the fall.  I’m wondering if I will end up having the place to myself for the last month or so.  Yet, we are still waiting on six more people to arrive, so that may not happen. 

There are seven sites on the island that will be surveyed monthly, and over one hundred annual sites, located Sherkin, on other islands, and along the coast of County Cork.  All of the work needs to be coordinated with the tides because we will be able to see the most shore and the greatest biodiversity at the lowest tides, which happen near the end of every month.  The tides are affected by the pull of the sun and the moon and the best alignment for the greatest pull happens after the full moon, and to a lesser extent, the new moon. 

I think it’s getting late now.  I’ve been using my alarm clock to check the time occasionally, but mostly I just ignore the concept of time.  At the moment, it’s rather irrelevant. 

Field Station Conditions

Flashback to...April 2010
The marine station seems to have fallen into a state of neglect with so much property to maintain.  Half of the buildings are now used for storage, mostly of books, especially in the sports hall, where conferences and educational programs were once held.  Yet, this is by no means the “rustic” living that I had expected.  There are still beds, hot water, electricity, modern kitchen appliances, internet (although dial-up may seem ancient to some), flush toilets, and a washing machine.  Though, the rooms are certainly drafty, perhaps due to the concrete walls and lack of insulation.  And it’s about a quarter mile of a walk to the toilets, which are separate from the shower.  However, I don’t think it could get much more rustic than my time in the Vermont Youth Conservation Corps, living in a tent and working on the Appalachian Trail. 

By 9pm, there is still a hint of light in the sky, even though it is only April.  Yet, a chill sets in once the sun begins its descent, and the nights are quite cold.  I’ve been sleeping with two to three layers of clothing on, two sleeping bags, and a winter hat!  But the days are so much warmer!  I still wear as many layers, but there is a light breeze and bright sun high in the sky, creating a cozy warmth.  The weather is supposed to be lovely for the week, but it can be highly variable on an island. 

Northern Safari

 The other day, I decided to explore the “wet meadow” along a different path, and on the island, towards which I was heading, there was a large, brown lump of something.  Getting a better view with my binoculars was useless, since I dropped them in the marsh two days prior and they were still quite foggy.  My first thought was an elk, which I discovered to be correct, once I crossed the island and saw him frolicking through the marsh 100-200 meters away.  Maybe he was actually running from me, but it looked as if he was enjoying himself.

Another day, I was driving down the horrible, rutted dirt road to pick up the others from a work site, when four wild boar piglets popped out from the vegetation to the left of the road.  They didn’t seem alarmed at the intrusive presence and noise of the oncoming vehicle, simply standing in the road and observing it for a few moments.  I cut the engine and watched them until they disappeared into the grasses on the opposite side.  Mom was not in sight, but I’m sure that she was keeping a close eye on things, concealed within the overgrowth.

Several weeks ago, we took our day off to look for beavers, but without success.  I returned to the site with one of my co-workers earlier this month to give it another go.  We saw no signs of them on our walk into the forest, even at their village of dams and dens, yet on our return trip, there was a tree root in the stream that looked suspiciously like a beaver.  Presently, it began to casually paddle about and climb onto the shore occasionally to munch on some leaves.  Out of nowhere, another beaver came into view, and yet another, a bit further downstream.  They swam about paying us no mind for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, before one became spooked by some unknown, hastily diving underwater with a harsh splash of his tail.  And then, they were gone.

Angry Birds

Following a more successful trip to plot A last week, I decided to try wandering it on my own, in order to gauge the likelihood of searching the closest subplot solo on our next A day.  I only made it about 200m from the end of the main path along one side of the subplot, when I was greeted by the angry chipping of a female Aquatic Warbler.  I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to add another nest to our growing data set, especially since it is becoming a race against time to discover nests before the chicks fledge. 

From my place on the path, I watched her fly a few meters back and forth between two flowers, which grew slightly higher than the surrounding vegetation, chipping loudly and insistently all the while.  After some time, she began to quiet down slightly and even leave her perches for a few moments to rummage up some grubs for her babies.  I observed her duck down in several locations only a couple of meters apart, which made me think that her chicks had already left the nest and were now scattered about this small section of the marsh. 

But, when I finally left my post to inspect these areas, they were far too damp and the vegetation too sparse to be a hideout for a young fledgling.  Not to mention, she would occasionally pop back up with the same insect in an attempt, perhaps, to give me a false idea of her nest’s location.  She also employed other tricks of going down in one spot and coming up from another, or even flying in, from what seemed a distance away, with more food.  She never seemed to stay in one spot long enough for me to be certain that her nest would be there. 

Yet, my three hours of observation time did yield a deformed circle of a few meters’ diameter, which she frequented, so I am hopeful to find a nest within this area next time.

Settling In

Flashback to...7 April 2012

All I hear in the morning is the chorus of birds and the waves crashing into the shore not too far below me.  It’s a bit breezy this morning, but the sun is bright and the sky, cloudless.  And so much green!  There are trees on Sherkin Island, but they are not very large.  Some on the mainland seem more like home.  Yesterday was drizzling rain until I was on my way to Baltimore, when the sun popped out.  The peacefulness here reminds me of Plainfield, remote, lacking the harsh noises of development, but also, there is water. 

I do love the ocean, but I haven’t spent nearly enough time there as I would like.  It’s just one of those things that I keep coming back to as an interest, something I want to do, but then, the idea becomes buried underneath what I have to do, or drifts away for a time.  It’s kind of sad to think about not pursuing what one loves.  Perhaps, there is a time and a place for it, though since everything can’t be done at once, and it may take time to really develop a passion for something.  I’m here now though, neighboring the ocean.  There are no excuses.  I also wanted to return to Ireland after the last trip, since the island was so lovely and the trip was short and rushed.  It’s amazing what chances life gives to you and how many!  Until you learn the underlying lesson or make the most of an opportunity.

For the past few days, I have been exploring the beaches for intertidal sea life with two other rocky shore surveyors, in order to become acquainted with recognizing the various species.  This will certainly be a crash course in data collection and species identification.  The organisms that we will be surveying include seaweeds, shelled animals, sponges, lichens, and sea anemones, among others.  There is a small library in the lab to assist us with identification.  We’ve mostly been working with seaweed over the past couple of days and there are remarkable differences among them.  Yet, it has been challenging to match what I see with the descriptions and pictures in the books.  There are so many possible choices for what a single organism could be. 

Arriving in Ireland

Flashback to...4/6/2010

I’m exhausted, after lots of walking with a heavy pack.  I’m still waiting to get kicked out of the country for not having proper paperwork.  The entire computer system of the immigration department was down today, so I couldn’t officially be processed upon my arrival.  I have been given a month to take care of it, and I may have to take a trip back to Cork to do so, unless there’s something I can do from the island or a nearby town.  I tried to find out if the computers might be up and running by tomorrow, so that I could spend the night in Cork and get things sorted straight away.  But I didn’t want to try that without any certainty, especially being unable to get in touch with the marine station owner to inform him of the situation. 

In spite of this situation, I feel relatively at ease in Ireland.  It has a homey feeling and the people are rather friendly, just going about living their lives.  Not to mention, immigration and the exhaustion that I caused myself in trying to sort it have really been the only bumps in the road, so far.  I haven’t felt anxious, which I believe has helped to keep problems at bay, or at least, from becoming out of hand. 

I now have two hours to wait for the bus to Baltimore.  I already bought the ticket and it will arrive before the last ferry leaves.  I haven’t been able to access the internet, so that I can check for correspondence from the marine station.  So, I’m still not sure what I will do once I get to Sherkin Island.

Moment of Truth

I had built up so much anticipation over the outcome of this next moment of truth that by the time the day arrived, I could hardly recognize it, or any other associated feeling for that matter. It felt like a dream loading equipment into my pack, hiking up my waders, and strolling with the team along the boardwalk towards our entrance path onto the marsh. The site had changed so much since I was last there, on that fateful day of my injury, with tall reeds now crowding each other and spilling over the edges of the boardwalk.

I eased myself gently off of the boardwalk with my trusty hiking poles, and kept a slow, steady pace, while intently watching where my feet would fall, in spite of being unable to see anything through the murky water. So far so good, as little leg lifting was required over this well-worn path. I was determined to make it to the end of the path, but after having accomplished this, I then set my sights on checking a nest only 100 meters from where I now stood. Seeing my first Aquatic Warbler nest was too much to pass up. Approaching the plot, I had to pick up my legs more, in order to get over the higher, denser vegetation, to which my knees began to protest.

Finally, I found the marker and after a brief search, I parted the litter to find five pairs of tiny eyes gazing up at me with upturned pale yellow beaks resting on the nest’s edge and their gray bodies huddled together in an area no more than ten centimeters in diameter. I quickly recovered them and walked away, as mom was chipping frantically from a willow bush a few meters off.

I was certain that my knees would be mad at me tomorrow, but the journey was well worth it, and even now they are only sore from the intense, unfamiliar workout. I’ll see how much more progress I am able to make the next time!

Corncrake (Crex crex) Sighting

Since that first day, I have often hiked on that marsh, gradually increasing my distance and duration to build up my strength and endurance, carefully testing the limits of my knee.  A couple of days ago, the wind finally died down, so that I was able to see and hear all of the dusk activity.  Aquatic Warbler trills and Corncrake creaks seemed to surround me.  Barn swallows and Snipes swirled overhead.  The island’s willows were bustling with Whinchats and Marsh Warblers. 

Nearly every time I had come to the island, I would hear a Corncrake calling from a short distance away.  Tonight was no exception, and I was determined to find him, especially as I still remembered my missed opportunity one evening on our way back to the car from a plot in May.  Stealthily, I tracked the origin of the sound to the edge of the island, close to where I had come from.  The call remained in the same general vicinity, but the Corncrake was definitely on the move.  I stopped and strained my eyes to see through the tangle of grasses surrounding me. 

Suddenly, a loud creak sounded from behind, startling me.  I slowly turned and saw an eye peering back at me through some dried vegetation, only a couple of meters from where I stood.  Presently, he stretched out his neck and let out another call, so that I was able to get a better view of him.  He quickly retracted back into the vegetation for further observation, as he was still unsure what to make of me.  Once I returned my attention to the original individual, who I had been pursuing, I heard the one from behind dash out across my path and into the grasses that I now searched.  He became silent after that, perhaps from the shock and terror instilled in him by my presence.  Having little success tracking his friend, I decided that I would leave them be and head for home with a brilliant red-orange sunset lighting my way.

On the Marsh Again

After a long day of walking around Bialowieza, I felt that my knee was ready to try a slightly more intensive hike. Just outside of Gugny on the grounds of Biebrza, there is a birding tower at the center of a marsh, a short walk from dry land. A week or two ago, I determined that reaching this tower would be my first step in reconditioning myself for work in the marshes, as it seemed a reasonable distance and the marsh was more like a wet meadow.

Now, my moment of truth had arrived. I set my sights on the tower and plunged in. I immediately noticed the difference in this environment, as the water level was so low that Wellies would have sufficed, instead of waders, and the vegetation was shorter and sparser than out at the plots. These conditions were even better than I had anticipated for a trial run. My knee made a few complaints along the way, but nothing serious enough to keep me from setting foot on that island oasis. I felt as if I were on top of the world stationed in the tower, and the thrill intensified, as a strong wind whipped by, drowning out all sound and causing the structure to sway.

Białowieża versus Biebrza

For a change of scenery, we all took a day trip to Białowieża National Park. We passed by rapidly changing landscapes of dense forests, fields, and small villages. The most significant shift occurred in Białystok, the major urban center in northeast Poland, composed of high-rise buildings and a confusing web of highways, some of which were not even on the map. Our first stop was to the bison reserve, where patrons are guaranteed to see these endangered animals, if they are not so lucky to spot them in the wilds of the park itself. As we wandered, it became clear that this was more like a zoo with each species on display, rather than a mimicry of the animals’ natural ecosystem. It was particularly dispiriting to see the caged elk and deer, when they are so commonly seen within Biebrza. Outside of the gates, a string of vendors had set up shop, selling everything from tacky souvenirs to baked and farm-raised goods.

At the park’s southern entrance, we were further struck by how tourist-oriented the park was. Clear, paved or cobbled walkways led to an education center, a natural history museum, and a restaurant, but there was no obvious access to hiking trails. We birded as we walked, catching glimpses of species that we had not come across in Biebrza, owing to the drier, forested habitat.

A short drive away was Białowieża’s old-growth forest, which had been salvaged by default through the preservation of royal hunting grounds. All of these trees were named in honor of Poland’s and Lithuania’s most beloved royalty. We strode along a well-kept boardwalk, which made such a short loop through the forest that we retraced our steps back again.

Public access to the park is largely restricted, unless one is willing to invest in hiring a guide. It was difficult to conceive how inaccessible the park was having come from Biebrza, where much trust is put in the public to engage with nature responsibly. However, this is stance is certainly influenced by the fact that Biebrza is not a major tourist attraction, receiving far fewer visitors than Białowieża. Needless to say, it felt wonderful to be back in the wild and rugged Biebrza and homey Gugny.

Ghost Town

Since my arrival, the hostel has been bustling with people, as groups of students unloaded each week to count singing male Aquatic Warblers throughout Biebrza National Park.  For the first two weeks, only a few were present, as the project was just beginning.  I enjoyed their presence, even though I took little initiative to strike up conversation.  Fortunately, some individuals did initiate conversation.  They never failed to impress me with their understanding of English, and put me to shame, as I was unable to hold a conversation in Polish. 

The dynamic of the hostel shifted with the daily arrival and departure of volunteers, tour groups, biologists, and other random guests.  Everyone seemed to immediately connect, conversing easily and unifying as a group, particularly at the nightly parties.  Yet, with the language barrier, I could not be sure how deeply these connections extended and how well everyone related to each other.  So I was left with the impression that they had become like family in this short period of time. 

Last Wednesday, about thirty students from Lublin arrived and that night commenced the wildest party I had yet witnessed at the hostel.  Some individuals even clambered up into the attic and insisted on peering down through our bathroom vent with their torch and conversed there throughout the night.

Needless to say, it was a sleepless night.

By the next day, the crowd had drastically dispersed, and now, there are two or three people left on the property with my co-workers and me.  It feels like a ghost town.  The quiet is at times refreshing, as when we spent a relaxing evening congregated around the fire pit.  We were only joined by the mosquitoes, whose company that we could have done without.  Yet, during the day, when all are off working and I am left to myself, the hostel seems like a ghost town and the silence feels somewhat unsettling.