Approximately three million Americans are currently diagnosed with Celiac Disease, an autoimmune condition that is triggered by the ingestion of the protein gluten. This condition destroys the lining of the small intestine over time, which leads to the inability to absorb vital nutrients. If someone with Celiac consumes even a trace of gluten, they are susceptible to severe stomach distress, but more seriously, they are slowly deteriorating their small intestine, which creates health problems such as malnutrition, osteoporosis, anemia, and stunted growth. The only solution is a gluten-free diet; this means the lifelong elimination of all wheat, rye, and barley products from the diet.

While only one percent of Americans are diagnosed with Celiac, ninety-five percent are unknowingly living with the symptoms and remain undiagnosed due to lack of awareness and education. The percentage of Americans with Celiac has increased fourfold in the past half century. This remarkable increase has stirred a movement that works toward greater awareness and more gluten-free options, such as Sweet Freedom Bakery. Sweet Freedom Bakery is the first bakery in Philadelphia that offers baked goods that are not only gluten-free, but also are vegan, dairy-free, egg-free, corn-free, peanut-free, soy-free, casein-free, and free of refined sugars.

Sweet Freedom Bakery is one of the 200 plus bakeries and restaurants whose employees have been trained by the National Foundation for Celiac Awareness. The NFCA is a nonprofit organization that offers training and resources for food services and healthcare professionals. Gluten-Free Resource Education and Awareness Training (GREAT) provides a system to deliver safe and tasty gluten-free food to the public, as well as comprehensive resources needed for healthcare professionals to identify the ninety-five percent of undiagnosed Celiac sufferers. GREAT’s services are available in person, online, or via webinar, which is a seminar that is conducted online.

Sweet Freedom Bakery, located on South Street between Broad and 15th Street, is a small bakery with meter parking and a lot conveniently located next door. The cost to park in the lot is $8 but it is poorly monitored, so for a quick visit parking there would not be a problem. Once inside, the guest is greeted by one of the friendly and knowledgeable employees behind the counter. The bakery is modestly decorated in blue, pink, and brown colors, with a cushioned window seat and a few barstools if you wish to enjoy your sweets in the shop. At 4:30pm on a recent Saturday (Sweet Freedom closes at 7pm everyday except Sunday, when it closes at 4pm), the shop was empty and the display cases were almost bare. New treats are continually baked throughout the day, a sign that the bakery is very popular and busy, so try to get there early in the day! Saturday’s specialties include Banana Chocolate Chop Cupcakes, Brownies, and Macaroons. Each day, the bakery serves special items, but they advise you to call ahead if you are looking for something particular.

The banana chocolate chip cupcakes, my new favorite, combined the flavors of banana and chocolate in perfect ratio. The cupcake’s texture was moist and indistinguishable from a gluten-laden cupcake. The apple oat crumble is the perfect substitute for any apple pie lover. Rich caramel and a hint of cinnamon complimented the taste of the fresh apples. The icing on the Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Sandwich is very sweet and sugary. The consistency of the cookie was soft, not cardboard-like as some gluten-free products are. I thought that the Cinnamon Sugar Loaf’s cinnamon flavor was overbearing and the texture was too powdery.

Sweet Freedom Bakery raises the awareness of the need for a gluten-free-friendlier community and provides delicious treats at the same time.

Carolynn McCormack is a junior at Drexel University majoring in English. She is also working toward the Certificate in Publishing and Writing.

Most kids I knew in high school didn’t plan much of anything — unless it was who they were going to homecoming with or what they were going to wear to the big football game. So I always felt a bit alienated when I talked about my big plans for after high school. They were to study at a good university, get a degree in international business and marketing, have a Chinese minor (and become fluent), study abroad, and work for an international company in southeast Asia, then eventually for the U.N.

I put all of my energies into this plan — but mostly into the Chinese aspect of it.

I had always known I wanted to be involved with international affairs and did careful research back in my beginning years of academia to decide what language to take. I had my heart set on being fluent in more than one language but Chinese seemed most important to learn first, in light of the growing U.S. dealings with China.

I spent all the money I had tailoring my studies towards the Chinese language: my trip to Taiwan, and my Chinese language classes (I paid out of pocket at a university near home while in high school) and the hour four times a week I spent driving there. Plus there was the cost of books and the commitment of time spent in class and studying.

But I learned that you can’t plan for everything. I got to Drexel and the language I was so passionate about for the past three and a half years became less of a priority. It wasn’t sinking in. I lost my passion for it and felt that it was more of a hindrance and obligation than anything else. Of course, some classes feel this way — those ones you’re required to take that everyone groans about (i.e., accounting), but you’re not supposed to feel that way about your chosen area of study.

I knew what I wanted to do, what I should do, what others told me to do, and none of it equated to anything I liked. When the study of the language started hurting my GPA, I could no longer ignore my Chinese problem. Following some urging from my mom, I went to my academic advisor and decided to drop the minor and the language altogether.

After strategically planning something for so long, it becomes you. Everyone knew how I felt about studying Chinese. It was something I was extremely proud of and that I felt was mine. This made it extremely hard to give up. I felt like I had broken up with a significant other, or lost my favorite stuffed animal from my youth.

My only comfort was some by-proxy advice from my oldest and dearest Drexel friend, given to her by her sister years before: the time spent miserably carrying out the task just to meet the expectations of others is not worth that time spent being unhappy.

I will hopefully take up another language. And who is to say I can never study Chinese again? For now, at least, it is on hiatus, until I have the means and desire to take it up full time, if I ever do. I won’t restrict myself to a rigid plan again. Maybe I’ll fall in love with Russian or French and wonder why I ever limited myself at all.

Olivia Mae DiPasquale is a pre-junior at Drexel University studying International Business and Marketing.

The most publicized topic on American television right now is Lindsay Lohan’s release from prison on August 2, 2010 after serving only 13 days of a 90-day sentence for violating the probation she received for a DUI charge. She is now completing her time in a rehabilitation facility in California.

Us Weekly, a popular gossip magazine, quoted Dina Lohan, Lindsay Lohan’s mother, as saying, when asked about her daughter’s time in jail, “She doesn’t have cell phone privileges, that’s absurd. She doesn’t even have a pillow to sleep on. I talk to her through glass. There’s a phone and we put her on speaker but I can’t even hug my daughter…She’s treated like a common criminal.” What’s actually absurd is that Lohan is a repeat offender and her behavior warrants time to serve as well as help for her addiction. Any average American’s life would be derailed if charged with a DUI, but Lohan will probably still work and earn more money than I will ever see despite her having served time (a very short time) in prison.

I grew up with the teeny-bopper magazines plastered with pictures of Lohan. There were her films like The Parent Trap and Mean Girls and then the epic battle over Aaron Carter between Lohan and Hilary Duff. She seemed to have a decent career ahead of her until the drug and alcohol accusations and then convictions started.

Why do we pay so much attention to these celebrities? By these, I mean those constantly in and out of prison and rehab. We read sensationalized tabloids, chatter amongst friends about the latest scandal, and relish in the stupidity and misfortune of high-profile people.

Maybe the reason why we’re so enamored with these stories is because they’re so far removed from our real lives. I don’t personally know Lindsay Lohan, but reading about her lifestyle was a little shocking, dare I say intriguing as I do not club hop, act, or model. All of the glitz and glamour is a bit appealing.

Another reason could be that we like tragedy. All classic literature, for example, has its respective ups and fabulous, extremely low downs. The best plays are usually tragedies like Shakespeare’s Hamlet — we love despair. We love to see these characters struggle. We love to see the fall of these characters, real or not. We see these people as merely characters existing in a constructed world not unlike fiction.

We watch them so closely because, maybe, we feel like we’re watching them in just another film, another role. Right now, Lohan’s role involves being a recent jailbird and spending some time in rehab. After this, she’ll find another role to play. The same goes for every wife-beating, panty forgetting, head shaving celeb.

On the other side, celebrities who do good also make a separation between average people and the stars. Celebrities like Angelina Jolie enhance their fame through philanthropy. Every time Jolie adopts a child or makes a generous donation, she is spotlighted on nightly news programs. These actions are so far beyond the reach of “normal” people that we admire this her for her work. It is hard to believe that “real” people are able to do these things and we forget that celebrities really are people.

Is this inability to separate character from real person really a problem? Probably only when someone approaches Patrick Dempsey and asks for medical advice. But maybe we need to center our attention on other things besides celebrities and their shenanigans. There is more to life than Lindsay Lohan’s mug shot.

Laura Knoll is finishing her junior year at Drexel University, majoring in English with a Certificate in Creative Writing and Publishing.

On June 25, 2010, the Philadelphia Parking Authority (PPA) placed a ticket on the windshield of my car.  It was not the first ticket the PPA has issued to me, and it probably won’t be the last.  But what makes this ticket different is the fact that it was completely erroneous and unwarranted.

The incident occurred on the small one-way street between Sansom and Walnut off of 34^th Street.  The area is popular because of New Deck Tavern, White Dog Café, and Mad Mex (where I work as a bouncer).  I parked on the corner next to the tall red post and bushes, or about two car lengths in front of the BMW pictured above.  The only sign is positioned above a garage door, which I circled in yellow.  I took a picture of the sign as well.

Based on the location of the sign, I assumed that parking in front of the garage door is prohibited.  Clearly, the owner of the BMW pictured above interpreted the sign the same way I did.  The fact is, on any given day of the week, there are three or four cars parked along this street, but never in front of the garage door.  And I have never seen a car get ticketed, much less towed as the sign indicates, for parking here.

More importantly, the PPA employee who issued the ticket I received wrote along the bottom, “Permit parking only- sign posted, no permit displayed.”   Wait just a second! First of all, I assumed only parking in front of the garage door was a violation.  Secondly, according to the misplaced sign, the penalty for parking there is being towed.  The sign says nothing about receiving a $51.00 fine for parking without a permit.

In order for this fine to be enforced, three things must happen.  The sign should be positioned so drivers are not tricked into thinking that only blocking the garage door is a violation.  The sign should also be changed to say “No parking from here to corner.” And the sign must also indicate that in order to park in this location a permit is required.

I have a court date in October to contest the ticket.  In the mean time, I no longer park along this street.  If a Mad Mex customer parks there, I warn them to move their car.  They never do, and none of them have ever gotten a ticket.  This infuriates me even more.

Grad school or the working world? This is decision many college seniors and recent college graduates are facing today. Not too long ago, the average American was considered fortunate and at an advantage to even have the opportunity to earn a bachelor’s degree. But now, more and more people are pursuing higher level degrees in order to advance their career. So, what is the best option – graduate school immediately after completing undergrad, find a job, or attempt to do both at the same time? As I approach my senior year at Drexel, I find myself asking this very question.

Four years ago, as a seventeen-year-old, I chose to major in English because that’s what I loved and I wanted to continue studying it. But, did I know what I wanted to do with this degree after I graduated college? No. Do I know now? Not really. Because I still have not discovered what I really want to do career-wise, Grad school seems like an appealing alternative to the real world and a way to put off the pressure and responsibility that comes from leaving the academia bubble. I have been a self-declared bookworm since elementary school. I thrived in school and took a lot of personal pride in it. I am good at being a student. I can only hope that I find as much success in a career as I have in school.

The obvious benefit of grad school is that it will allow me to enter the workforce at a higher level, with a higher salary – this has never been a secret. Money is a very strong motivational factor in deciding to go to grad school. Sometimes you have to spend money to make money. The university setting is also a great way of networking. I could learn from professors, other students, and experts in my field, as well as make good business relationships.

However, because I do not know what I want to do, I obviously do not know if what I end up doing will require a master’s degree. And if it does not, why waste the time and money? I am extremely fortunate that my parents were able to pay for my undergraduate education and that I will be leaving Drexel debt-free. Grad school would be out of my pocket, a very empty pocket. Too much education is never a bad thing, but another part of me is ready to get a job and make some money before I start spending any.

Another concern I have is that I will leave academia for the pursuit of career and find myself wishing I had gone to grad school. Will I be able to get back into the student mind-set after leaving it? Going to grad school immediately after college will obviously make for a much smoother transition. My test-taking skills, critical reading and essay writing skills, for example, will all still be at their peak and fresh. Would I be able to balance working full-time and being a part-time student? I do not know.

Some students use school to “find themselves,” as the clichéd saying goes. To me, finding myself seems not only like a luxury, but an unrealistic goal. I do not think we as humans ever truly know everything there is to know about ourselves, so this quest never really ends. Besides, even I am not sure what “I want to be when I grow up,” jumping into the career world may actually help me discover this, while making and saving money. Although I feel that returning to school after leaving for a job would be challenging, it is a valid possibility. I could take some time to save money that I can afford grad school, but also use it determine what I like and do not like about my current job to re-evaluate what my career goals are going to be after completing graduate school. Or, maybe I will discover that I am actually happy in the working world and do not need graduate school after all.

So, what’s my plan? I think I will make the most of my last year at Drexel, for starters. In a couple months, I will start looking for jobs to find out what is even out there in this economy. I am nervous about leaving school, because it’s been such a huge part of my life but I am excited at the thought of moving on to something different. Fortunately, very few decisions ever need to be written in stone. If I chose a job and find myself missing school, it’s never too late to go back. And if I go to grad school and really wish I was a career girl already, then at least most programs are over in two years. Decisions are hard, but I am lucky that I have the opportunity to make them.

Carolynn McCormack is a junior at Drexel University majoring in English. She is also working toward the Certificate in Publishing and Writing.

When I was 16 I got my first job at a local Target. I was psyched to start making money, cleared my schedule to be able to work as often as possible and showed up 10 minutes early to my first day. I can remember having my Polaroid taken and hung in the employee lounge as a newbie – my smiling braced teeth, my perfectly styled hair, my vibrant red shirt. How little I knew about working with the public then.

I stood at the conveyor each shift sliding purchase after purchase into bags that I had separated the way my mother had advised me: wet things, dry things, personal products, clothes (FOLDED!) and greeting cards in a separate smaller bag. I greeted every guest with a smile, made small talk, pushed Red Cards (a Target credit card) and got them moving along as quickly as possible.

I started working at this dream job during the Christmas season. The store was always busy and buzzing with parents carting out brand new bicycles and other goodies from Santa. One day, a guest in my checkout line purchased a toy fire truck that came in a large box that didn’t fit in our undersized oversized holiday bags. After trying a handful of times and ripping three bags with the obnoxious box, the guest rolled her eyes and grabbed the box picturing smiling boys playing fireman from my inept hands.

“You know what your problem is?” she said to me, “You’re too stupid to realize that this box is just too big for that bag. Look at all the waste you made.” She took her receipt and huffed out into the cold December night. I seethed. The audacity of this woman! Not only was I certain that I was far from stupid, I was only trying to help her so that she didn’t miss the patch of ice that she potentially slipped on because the box was in her face. I’ll never know for sure, but I hoped that she did slip on the ice. I didn’t want her to be seriously hurt, of course, but maybe a sore rear and a sense of looming karma.

The berating at Target was fast and furious and for every pleasant customer there were three or four miserable ones. Needless to say, there is only so much one 16-year-old girl can take before she’s crying before and after every shift and her father finds her a new job. 

I quit Target and began working at a jewelry store in New Jersey for a family who hired me and after a few years claimed me for their own. In the five years that I have worked there I’ve seen countless customers get engaged, plan weddings and get married. In all of that time I had never seen a “Bridezilla” until this summer. Sure, there are times when brides were stressed, complaining, or cranky, but they always came back another day either apologetic or in a better mood. This particular woman, however, was always wretched.

She would come at least twice a week to complain. First, she handpicked her own engagement ring and expected her fiancé to surprise her with it. When he made some adjustments to the piece to make it more personal, more from him to her instead of her to her, she demanded that it be changed. When it came time to pick wedding bands, the groom chose his without any problem. The next day she came in and exchanged it because, “he doesn’t know what he wants.” Her ring would need to be custom made.

The happy couple planned their wedding in six months and waited until two weeks before the wedding for our onsite jeweler to hand make her wedding band. As you can imagine, this takes a lot of time and concentration and he made it after her set deadline, but before her wedding. 

This is when the proverbial matter hit the fan. Because he was in a time crunch, the ring was not crafted to her exact specifications. The ring was polished, glittering with thousands of dollars of diamonds, but there was no inscription inside as she had requested. Of course, the day she came to pick it up my boss was on vacation and the jeweler was off.

My coworker and I stood unprotected at the counter, anticipating the carnage that was sure to follow. We noticed the oversight when we were admiring her ring earlier in the day, but without any experience or training ourselves to scratch in the design she had requested, we were at loss to remedy the situation. Any normal person wouldn’t worry about what was inside the ring where no one would see, but from past experience we knew this would not go well.

We saw her car pull in, watched her sashay through the door, handed her the ring, held our breath as she turned it over in her fingers to inspect every detail, and covered our ears after she opened her mouth.

She may have screamed well into her wedding ceremony, I’ll never know for certain. My coworker and I tried unsuccessfully to appease her. We padded her with gift certificates and made a rush appointment with the jeweler to engrave her ring the moment she came back from her honeymoon. But I can tell you that as far as I know, this woman’s mouth did not stop spewing even after our front door slammed shut.

There was simply nothing that could be done to help this woman, and that’s when I recalled the customers I ran into at Target. There will be times that we run into people who are unhappy and unreachable. Maybe it makes them happy to belittle someone who is, for the most part, a perfect stranger.

I’ve probably overused this example in my short life time, but John Steinbeck wrote in East of Eden that he believes there are true monsters in the world with malformed souls. There isn’t anything you can do for them and they’re unavoidable. The woman determined to ruin my night at Target when I was 16? What a pity for her that she’s spiritually deformed. Bridezilla? Such a shame to be void of a perfectly formed soul.  A past professor who made me nearly cry in the middle of class and then actually cry later in the privacy of my bedroom? How unfortunate to be born with a personality like that. Accept these people and move on because, really, what else is there to do but pity them? Oh, and read East of Eden.

Laura Knoll is finishing her junior year at Drexel University, majoring in English with a Certificate in Creative Writing and Publishing.

On different occasions throughout my life I have heard people say they had a “Travel Bug.” It was only after getting a taste of independent travel abroad that I realized how strong this pull can truly be.

In high school, I knew I couldn’t stay in my tiny secluded town of Berwick all summer of my senior year, so I embarked on a journey to Taipei, Taiwan. Traveling across the world alone at the age of 17 was something I dove into headfirst without doing much thinking, but I’m glad I did.

Ever since then I have had an extremely strong and constant urge to travel. There is a feeling like no other when you are perpetually “lost” and everything is different from your daily routine. I believe being cultured, worldly, well-rounded and open-minded is the only way to be. It is also the best possible way to learn. And I’m talking about the multifaceted, life-lessons type of learning. When I meet a person who has zero independence (yes, girls who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves, I’m talking to you) and they say things like “I could never dream of doing this or that,” I suggest they take a trip, preferably by themselves.

When you travel you meet people who are on different levels who can offer you bits and pieces to take with you. Even if you are only left with the fond memory of them, that somehow always seems to be enough.

I once met a boy from Kosovo who, by the age of 17, had already experienced so many tragedies that I was instantly bowled over upon hearing them. Seeing your father blown-up by his own faulty hand grenade as you fight Albanian rebels side by side is not something anyone should ever have to endure. It is experiences like this, as an American, I have had the luxury of never knowing.

As depressing as the Kosovan tale was, my travels taught me that there are hundreds of other, more positive stories, experiences, and coincidences that unite. When I was in Taiwan I spent a day on a tea farm with Buddhist monks who oversaw and partook in the process of tea harvesting. The owner of the tea farm asked where I was originally from. I usually didn’t bother telling people “Berwick, PA” because it is literally on the other side of the world. Plus, other Pennsylvanians have no clue where Berwick is, so why would this random Taiwanese farmer have any idea? But by force of habit the exact coordinates of what I call home slipped out and to my utter shock he exclaimed, “POTATO CHIPS!” (My town is one of the largest suppliers of Weis Potato chips). It turns out that he did a study abroad program in Scranton, a mere hour’s drive from my house.

As of late this pull is stronger than ever. Being in a city at a school that facilitates the international lifestyle, I am often compelled to just pick up and go. I’m not sure where my next adventure will take me, and the best part is that that is the least important aspect of it. I would be content going anywhere that would allow me to broaden my horizons and make international connections. And that is the beauty of the bug—once you get it, you have no desire to shake it.

Olivia Mae DiPasquale enjoys the simpler things in life, among them: writing, growing her herb garden, and cooking obscure exotic dishes for anyone brave enough to sample them. She is studying International Business and Marketing with a Chinese minor.

This past Fourth of July I went down the Ben Franklin Parkway and sat on the lawn in front of the iconic Philadelphia Art Museum to watch the annual fireworks show with my family.  This was our first time going to see them, and unfortunately we had miscalculated the timing of the event.  We got there thinking they started at 9 p.m. and later found out that they were to start at 11 p.m. after the concerts on the Parkway had ended.

As we sat there, I noticed the crowd getting larger and larger.  People of all races and social classes were arriving with sheets, blankets, drinks, family and friends.  It was then that I realized that all of these people, including me, were there to watch a 20-minute show of fireworks.  What’s so special about fireworks?  Why will we camp out in 90-degree weather while getting eaten alive by mosquitoes to watch them?

Fireworks are a staple during two American holidays each year: New Year’s Eve and July 4^th.  And they are a must in Disney World, which incidentally is the largest purchaser of fireworks in the United States.

The unusual aspect of fireworks is not our desire to watch them, but our reaction to them.  As I sat back and watched everyone around me, it was as though we were at a rock concert.  When a large display lit the sky and quickly changed colors, some in the audience screamed, as if Bono or Paul McCarthy had just walked on stage.  They oooh’d and aaah’d in minor rapture.  There was clapping, too.  But why? For what? In admiration of the person who created the firework, or the display, the light and noise, in the sky? It seems akin to when an audience applauds a movie. Neither the fireworks nor the movie performers can appreciate applause, and yet we offer it, perhaps in some kind of spontaneous, cathartic release.

Last but not least, there were the cameras.  The audience took photos as if they were capturing a moment in the South Africa World Cup Finals game to be published on Time’s Photo of the Year cover.  And how could I forget the tripods?  How bizarre are we that we set up tripods to take photos of fireworks? It might make for a pretty picture, but tripods?  Is that not a little excessive for a 20-minute fireworks show that happens every year? But I suppose this speaks to how seriously some people take fireworks—they want to capture the experience for someone else, even though a photo can hardly do a live fireworks show justice, if only because the sound is absent, to say nothing of how most modern fireworks are so dramatic.

It’s just strange when you really take yourself out of the crowd and look around. Perhaps it all comes back to a desire we have to watch things be lit on fire for entertainment.  We are amused by it. In that case, let’s just admit that we all have a little pyromaniac in us.

Sonal Patel is studying Communications in her fourth year at Drexel University. She is currently interning for the Drexel Publishing Group. Sonal is the Executive Director for the undergraduate public relations firm, 33rd Street PR. She is also the former treasurer for the Drexel chapter of the Public Relations Student Society of America.

On July 5, 2010 at 1:05 AM, my phone buzzed me awake from a deep slumber with a text that read: “DrexelAlert – Shooting 35 & Spring Garden by 3 BMs fled west on Spring Garden avoid area police on scene.” A second message came through at 2:35 AM: “Update 35 & Spring Garden — No Drexel Affiliates involved. No more info on suspects. Go to www.drexel.edu for updates.”

A wave of panic washed over me before I remembered that I was safely snuggled in my bed in South Jersey with my family snoozing a few yards away, but I worried about my schoolmates party-hopping and enjoying their 4th of July without checking their phones or even hearing the beep of a message alert.

According to an article written at the beginning of the year, there were 305 people killed in Philadelphia in 2009. The Philadelphia Police Department releases weekly statistics on crime. From 6/21/2010 – 6/27/2010 there were 7 homicides, 18 rapes, 54 robberies with guns, and 138 cases of aggravated assault in the city. Violent crime rates are dropping in Philadelphia, as many outlets have been reporting, but does that mean that we should feel any safer in our city?

I know that I don’t. Every day when I ride the subway I feel that I don’t have enough eyes to look out for myself. It doesn’t help that others like to tell me their experiences on the Market-Frankford Line. Recently I was telling someone that I had just mustered up the courage to use the subway (yes, I lead a very sheltered life). Her response to my timid approach to public transportation went something like, “Oh, you’ll be fine! I was only jumped twice and once someone stole my phone.”

Jenna, a Drexel biology major entering her senior year this fall, says, “I generally feel safe on campus, but that feeling doesn’t extend to all parts of Philly. Some of the parts I find most unsettling are the areas directly surrounding campus like the Spring Garden area.” Though she does not have a particular personal experience with crime, she believes that her gut feeling and the stories that she has heard are plenty justification for her thinking the city unsafe. As for Drexel itself, Jenna explains, “I guess the number and presence of people on campus is what makes it feel so safe.”

It is difficult as Drexel students to avoid most areas as we go on co-op interviews, to work, meetings, and events all over the city. Crime will, unfortunately, probably always be prevalent in cities and it is up to us to ensure our own safety even when we are on campus or other places that normally feel safe. The National Crime Prevention Council’s website has a list of things we can do to protect ourselves, such as only carrying the money that we will need for the day, keeping electronic devices like cell phones and iPods hidden, using the buddy system, and if someone does try to rob us, giving up our property.

Drexel’s Public Safety site also has valuable tips like keeping roommates informed of where we are, when we will return, and who we are with. If we feel unsafe, we can call Drexel Public Safety at (215) 895-2222 or the Walking Escorts at (215) 895-2822. Also, it is important to register with Drexel’s alert system. When there is an emergency, the text messages may pour in at all hours as they did recently, but they could also keep us out of danger.

A bit of a prelude to my next piece about football (soccer) in America, this one is a response to a mate of mine who had the audacity to insinuate that football was “just a game.” After I had suitably admonished him for uttering such blasphemy in my presence, I narrated to him my pilgrimage to Highbury, former home of my beloved Arsenal Football Club.

***

Fist clenched above his head in celebration, a lone Frenchman stands imperiously before a gallery of adoring fans. As one, a 30,000-strong wave surges forward to acclaim their hero.

A deafening roar sweeps the ground as scenes of wild celebration ensue in all but one of the four corners of this coliseum of football.  In this one corner sit about 6,000 Juventus fans, disbelief etched on their faces. For you see, things haven’t exactly gone as planned. This was supposed to be their night, they were the ones supposed to be lording it over their jubilant hosts. Fortunately for the majority gathered, fate  had other plans.

***

View of the Highbury Pitch

Such is the power of sport; while one set of people sits about looking and feeling utterly dejected and the other experiences wild euphoria. On this occasion I had the joy of being part of the victorious 30,000 packed into Highbury (home to Arsenal football club from 1913 to 2006) and bore witness to the compelling spectacle of Arsenal’s triumph over Juventus in the UEFA Champions League.

That morning I had awoken with a sense of excitement hitherto reserved for the mornings of my birthday. The day I had long awaited was finally here, for you see, today was a day like no other. My mate Garry had, after months and months of trawling questionable websites on the Internet, secured us two tickets to watch Arsenal play Juventus.

We took a flight down to London from Aberdeen in Scotland where upon our arrival we hoped on the tube and commenced our pilgrimage through London and on to the home of football.

As the train neared its destination, it slowly started to fill with other like-minded souls. My nervous excitement cranked up a couple of notches, like a foreign anthropologist in the heart of the Amazon, witnessing a sacred tribal ritual, I wondered whether they would notice a stranger in their midst or would my presence go unremarked upon.

Suddenly, from the back of the tube car, a lone voice broke out into a rendition of the terrace classic “Arsene Wenger’s Red and White Army.”

Others around me joined in and the noise slowly built to a nice dull roar. My ears picked up a familiar baritone voice. You can imagine my surprise as it dawned on me that I was singing along, with all the gusto of an Olympian at the podium as his nations flag is being raised. All feelings of nervousness now effectively banished, I proceeded to engage my compatriots in lively conversation about the upcoming game.

Soon, though, the train came to a stop at the aptly named Arsenal station, at which point me and my newly found comrades went our separate ways. For Garry and myself were on a mission; Highbury was an old style stadium, and as such did not have the hidden player entrances of its more modern counterparts. This meant that the buses carrying the players were obliged to empty their precious cargo onto the street adjacent to the majestic marble hall on the North side of the stadium.

It was here that we were slowly making our way and were soon enough engaged in a good-natured jockeying for position with other fans in a bid to get a good vantage point from which to glimpse our heroes. A few well-aimed elbows later we were front and centre, poised anxiously for the players’ arrival.

The first bus to arrive was that of the visiting Italian champions. Their arrival prompted the Juventus fans in our midst to break into song as their players made their way into the ground. Each player was greeted with applause from the Juventus fans and a muted silence from us Arsenal fans.

One player though, disembarked from the bus to great fan fare from both sets of fans. The footballer was Patrick Vieira, former club captain who after nine years of dedicated service at the heart of our midfield had been sold on to the Turin based club the previous summer. This was his first game back in London since his transfer and the fans made sure he knew he was still loved in this part of London.

A wave of excited whispers suddenly swept through the crowd. The Arsenal team bus had arrived! First off was our manager Arsene Wenger and erstwhile master of ceremonies, and whose name I had earlier been chanting on the train down. Calmly accepting the fans applause with his customary grace he continued on into the stadium followed by his team.

It is fair to say that by this point I was totally overawed by the whole event. Here were my heroes, gladiators on whose broad shoulders rested my hopes and dreams of European triumph. Lacking any other way to express my happiness, I burst into a fit of unmanly giggles more at home in a gaggle of prepubescent girls than in the midst of hardened football fans. A look of utter horror on Garry’s face sorted me out sharpish though!

Tickets in hand, we finally made our way through the turnstiles and into the belly of this magnificent old stadium. The steward directed us to a set of stairs that would lead us up to our seats.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the weight of what I was about to experience giving me reason to hesitate. Years and years of dreaming of this moment… Would it live up to my expectations? Could it? Or would I be doomed to disappointment?

Garry broke my rapidly debilitating train of thought with a simple bit of logic: “If you never climb these stairs you will never know what lies on the other side.”

So on I went. Now, from the bottom of the stairs, all I could see was a dark blue square slice of sky. As I stepped up each step, more of the stadium was revealed. First the tops of the stands on the other side of the ground and then the famous massive clock that hung down from the top of the east side of the stadium.

Suddenly and without any warning, Highbury was there spread out in all its magnificence for me to see. From my vantage point high in the stand, I suddenly had a breathtaking panoramic view of the entire ground.

Speechless, I looked down at the immaculately manicured emerald-green turf. I had arrived! With the trepidation of a pilgrim who had unwittingly stumbled into the inner sanctum of his chosen deity, I let my gaze wander across the stadium. I was there!

As we took our seat to await the coming battle, the seats around us in the north bank behind the goal started to fill. The players then came out to do their pre-match routine warm-ups.  Garry and I were fortunate enough to witness the great Denis Bergkamp limber up with his comrade in arms, the aptly named King of Highbury, Thierry Henry.

At this point the stadium was filled to about halfway, and each player was serenaded with applause from those gathered in the stands. In the far corner, the Juventus fans had also started to take their seats. We traded chants back and forth as the players finished their warm-ups and returned to the changing rooms for a final word from their respective managers.

By this point, the ground was packed to its 38,000 capacity and the atmosphere was fantastic. For here, on this hallowed ground, people from all walks of life had gathered and were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder eager to partake in the coming spectacle. Quickly making friends with those sitting around me, I proceeded to talk shop. The general consensus seemed to be that we were most definitely the underdogs here but at the same time there was an air of expectation that an upset was on the cards as well. An enthralling match in prospect all round then!

The next two hours passed with a pace that can be attributed to the fact that I was entirely overawed by the whole event. The roar to which the players’ arrival was greeted sent my heart racing. Pulse thudding insanely in my head I cheered the team on with the ardor of a zealot. A comprehensive summary of the game will have to be read if one searches for an informative guide on the tactical maneuverings, for I was so enraptured at this point that the mere glance in the direction of the ball by an Arsenal player was greeted with a standing ovation and manic clapping by yours truly.

Fabregas Celebrates

A few incidents, though, stand out in my memory and are I believe worthy of special mention. In the build up to the first goal, Robert Pires (our mercurial French maestro) dispossessed our former captain Vieira with a well timed tackle before laying off a pass to our new captain Thierry Henry who then laid off a sublime pass to Cesc Fabregas, the 17-year-old midfield prodigy upon whose young shoulders had fallen the task of replacing our former captain.

Shrugging of the attentions of a Juventus defender (none other than the majestic Lilian Thurman), Cesc Fabregas calmly slotted the ball in the bottom corner of the goal. One nil to the arsenal and pandemonium rained in the stands. Delirious with joy, we danced wildly in celebration.

In the second half, a break in play allowed Thierry Henry to come racing to the North Bank where Garry, about 16,000 other arsenal fans, and I were sitting. Beseeching us to turn up the noise by lifting his hands repeatedly in the air, his efforts were greeted with a crescendo of noise as we redoubled our efforts to blow the roof off the stadium.

Ten minutes later our efforts were rewarded when the self same player latched onto a pass from the magnificent Cesc Fabregas, pirouetted with the grace of a Russian ballet dancer, and rifled the ball past a diving Buffon. Two nil to the Arsenal and I was literally in dreamland.

The rest of the match passed all too quickly as we serenaded out all conquering hero’s to many a song filled with a litany of their exploits over the last few years. The final whistle came too soon and as the whole stadium rose as one, in an ovation that lasted a full five minutes as we applauded our conquering heroes, I reflected back on a passage from Nick Hornsby’s  Fever Pitch:

“I had discovered after the Swindon game that loyalty, at least in football terms, was not a moral choice like bravery or kindness; it was more like a wart or a hump, something you are stuck with. Marraiges are nowhere as rigid – you won’t catch any Arsenal fans slipping off to Tottenham for a bit of extra-marital slap and tickle, and though divorce is a possibility (you can just stop going if things get too bad), getting hitched again is out of the question. There have been many times over the last twenty-three years when I have poured over the small print of my contract looking for a way out, but there isn’t one. Each humiliating defeat (Swindon, Tranmere, York, Walsall, Rotherham, Wrexham) must be bourne with patience, fortitude and forbearance; there is simply nothing that can be done, and that is a realization that can make you simply squirm with frustration.”

Or for those who still have the temerity to believe that our religion is just a game, I leave you with the words of one of the most iconic managers in football:

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.”

-Bill Shankly

Zachary Ssebuliba Ssebatindira is a 22-year-old Ugandan. He is currently in his third year of five at Drexel University, majoring in Biomedical Engineering.