Keys: ce qu’il y a autour, comment y aller et quand venir · 2026

KKKristina Krutovakkm1410 · 15 déc. 2018Lire

Fact #5 - going to America with your bestie = laughing your head off 24/7. This is the stereotype that none of us ever intended to break. Just think about it! What could be better than going to America with your best friend for 4 months TOGETHER! When we were about 12, we could only dream of this, and in May 2018 we were confidently walking through Times Square, chatting with passersby, and eating that very New York cheesecake in the evenings. And even though that summer wasn't the easiest, it was definitely the most unforgettable. Why? Coming home from work 120% exhausted but still making something delicious; riding the waves of the Atlantic Ocean on a ferry and seeing 3 whales and a seal; waking up at 3 AM to catch the sunrise at the top of Cadillac Mountain, and then heading to that bakery to have a breakfast of freshly baked pumpkin cinnamon rolls (which, by the way, the islanders are just crazy about); swimming in the ocean at night; enjoying the views of the island where we lived all summer during a helicopter tour; trying more than 50 flavors of ice cream; meeting a couple of deer and a flock of wild turkeys at night. And all summer long, thinking about how we would plan those coveted two weeks after work ended. Usually incredibly cautious, we decided to completely forget about what we had planned and just let things take their course. The first city was Boston. Arriving there, we had a bunch of bags and a wild desire to spend this time in a way that no one would believe it happened to us. By a happy coincidence, it was in Boston that we met our acquaintances, with whom we tried oysters for the first time, went to Harvard and other city landmarks. Walking through the streets of a huge city you've heard so much about, next to your friends, is probably something we would wish for everyone. This is what it was worth flying 7,000 km from home for, what it was worth working for, and what we would definitely repeat. After seeing Boston, the two of us arrived at the airport, having no idea where we wanted to go next, and, relying only on the departure time, we bought tickets to Chicago. Chicago is turquoise canals that cleverly weave between skyscrapers, it's drawbridges, the subway right above pedestrian streets, almost brushing against mirrored buildings; it's the famous Bean, the most delicious deep-dish pizza, incredible rooftops, jazz bars, and views of Lake Michigan. In Chicago, we rode a double-decker bus through the night city, naively comparing it to Boston, walked the streets all night, went to the other end of the city for breakfast just for the beautiful tableware, and that's where we tried the spiciest pasta of our lives. The next destination was also chosen spontaneously, and 9 hours later we were checking into a hostel in Los Angeles. That was the first time we found ourselves in a room so small that we had to take turns throwing our suitcases onto the bed just to get our clothes, simply because there was no room for them on the floor. That was the first time we understood the meaning of a "3 by 3 meter room," a shared ceiling, and all the romance of hostels. Trying to leave our dwelling as quickly as possible, we set off to conquer the city. And standing not far from that very "Hollywood" sign, it felt like we were in the coolest American movie. We won't go into the details of the trip to this city; going there turned out not to be the best spontaneous decision, as it turned out this place wasn't for us. New York was the only city for which we bought tickets in advance. Waking up early in the morning, we called a taxi, sat happily in the back seat, anticipating a new city. But we couldn't have imagined that the traffic in LA is no less than in New York. And after spending a good 2.5 hours in the taxi, we were completely late for our flight. Upon arriving at the airport, we very diligently explained to the Virgin Airlines staff that we had missed our plane and that we just had to fly to New York. Then, without t

MPMariya Pantyukhinapantyuhina.mariya · 15 déc. 2018Lire

Fact #5 - going to America with your best friend = laughing your head off 24/7. This is the stereotype that none of us ever intended to break. Just think about it! What could be better than going to America with your best friend for 4 months, just the two of you! When we were about 12, we could only dream of this, and in May 2018, we were confidently strolling through Times Square, chatting with passersby, and eating that iconic New York cheesecake in the evenings. And even though that summer wasn't the easiest, it was definitely the most unforgettable. Why? Coming home from work 120% exhausted but still making sure to cook something delicious; riding the waves of the Atlantic Ocean on a ferry and spotting 3 whales and a seal; waking up at 3 a.m. to catch the sunrise at the top of Cadillac Mountain, and then heading to that bakery for a breakfast of freshly baked pumpkin cinnamon rolls (which, by the way, the island locals are absolutely crazy about); swimming in the ocean at night; enjoying the views of the island where we lived all summer during a helicopter tour; trying over 50 flavors of ice cream; encountering a couple of deer and a flock of wild turkeys at night. And throughout the whole summer, thinking about how we would plan our coveted two weeks after work ended. Usually incredibly cautious, we decided to completely forget what we had planned and just let things flow. The first city was Boston. Arriving there, we had a bunch of bags and a wild desire to spend this time in a way that no one would believe it actually happened to us. By a happy coincidence, it was in Boston that we met our friends, with whom we tried oysters for the first time, made it to Harvard and other city landmarks. Walking through the streets of a huge city you've heard so much about, right next to your friends, is probably something we would wish for everyone. This is what it was worth flying 7,000 km from home for, what it was worth working for, and what we would definitely repeat. After seeing Boston, the two of us arrived at the airport, having absolutely no idea where we wanted to go next, and relying only on the departure time, we bought tickets to Chicago. Chicago is turquoise canals that cleverly weave between skyscrapers, it's drawbridges, the subway right above pedestrian streets, almost brushing against mirrored buildings; it's the famous Bean, the most delicious deep-dish pizza, incredible rooftops, jazz bars, and views of Lake Michigan. In Chicago, we rode a double-decker bus through the night city, naively comparing it to Boston, walked the streets all night, traveled to the other end of the city for breakfast just for the beautiful tableware, and that's where we tried the spiciest pasta of our lives. The next destination was chosen just as spontaneously, and 9 hours later we were checking into a hostel in Los Angeles. That was the first time we found ourselves in a room so small that we had to take turns throwing our suitcases onto the bed just to get our clothes, simply because there was no room for them on the floor. That was when we first understood the meaning of a "3 by 3 meter room," a shared ceiling, and all the romance of hostels. Trying to leave our dwelling as quickly as possible, we set off to conquer the city. And there, standing not far from that very "Hollywood" sign, it felt like we had ended up in the coolest American movie. We won't go into the details of the trip to this city; going there wasn't the best spontaneous decision, as it turned out, this place wasn't for us. New York was the only city for which we bought tickets in advance. Waking up early in the morning, we called a taxi, sat happily in the back seat, anticipating a new city. But we couldn't have imagined that the traffic in LA is no less intense than in New York. And after spending a good 2.5 hours in the taxi, we completely missed our flight. Upon arriving at the airport, we very diligently explained to the Virgin Airlines staff that we had missed ou

AAAnna Akmagambetovaanna1125 · 1 févr. 2015Lire

The plane's landing gear leaves the runway. Behind me are the paperwork hassles, bank queues, pre-embassy jitters, a trip across all of Kazakhstan (because it would have been too simple to just go from Aktobe to Astana and back, better to take a small detour, say, through Almaty, but that's a different story), packing (which means equipping a faithful backpack that has seen a bit too much for its kind), giving my mother valerian, convincing my father of my adequacy and independence, and early exams... And what's ahead? Holidays in America, a dream for if not every second person, then at least half of them! 12 hours on a plane is not the easiest way to spend time. You have to force your restless self to sit in one seat, changing poses from a cultured person on a plane to a bundle of clothes and a blanket (yes, it gets chilly at that altitude) asleep on the tray table. And when all the books are read (2), all the movies watched (3), all the games played, and your body has become like jelly and your shoulder has adapted to being a pillow for a snoring friend, it's hard to believe that there is land somewhere out there. Landing. Hello, America. In my head, Alicia Keys' voice automatically starts singing, competing with Frank Sinatra. This is New York. Yes, it's just the terminal for now. But there's an indescribable feeling of satisfaction, as if you crossed the Atlantic Ocean not by plane, but by jetpack. A long line at passport control. You naively assume this is the last time you'll hear so much Russian speech around you. A smiling border guard politely asks me to place my fingers one by one on the scanner for fingerprints. Whether he was used to working with foreigners who weren't always fluent in English, or he sensed the puppy-like excitement on my face, which felt like it bordered on idiocy, he didn't torture me much and quickly sent me to find my luggage. Thanking all the gods that I packed everything I needed into a small bag and could move around light, I spot my friend's huge suitcase. I had dreamed too much. From the airport, we had a road ahead to Atlantic City, New Jersey. We had planned the route back in KZ, the road went without adventures, well, except for a bunch of photos)) The only problem was when, trying to call our employer from the bus station, we tried to shove 50 cents into the machine. European ones, actually. We messed around for a long time, indignant, cursing the technology, but then, of course, we laughed heartily at our own idiocy. And now we are sitting at the empty Atlantic City station, with other students, but from somewhere in Russia. Our employer arrives. Like it or not, the USA is a country of great opportunities, great distances, big cars, and corresponding people. We signed a contract with a large company that organizes camping across the country. Good salary, free housing, overtime available, one downside—we lived in the forest on the camp grounds. A little less than an hour and we were there. Beautiful forest all around, our own (almost) lake, gym, pool, and cozy little trailers. A certain disappointment due to the considerable distance from the city is slightly softened by the news that the ocean is twenty minutes from the camp. Too bad no one clarified that it was by car. We are given bicycles. The best friends of almost every J-1 student. Or the worst enemy. Depends on how you look at it. The choice of the iron horse took place through my friend's Tatar cunning and my German doom. Choosing from the two remaining, she grabbed a presentable mountain bike, proudly shimmering in the sun. I, a person who last sat on a bike at 15, got an experienced (judging by the rust) thin-wheeled machine the color of any Barbie dress, which, as it turned out later in August, also had a flipped handlebar. But one must remember that it's like with people, you can't guess what lies behind a beautiful exterior. And so I flew like a two-wheeled Formula 1 car, while my friend's bike would have gone faster if i

LKLyudmila Kovalevamila_kovaleva · 15 oct. 2011Lire

Around 11 a.m. on July 29, we finally landed at JFK airport, safe and sound... Honestly, I had spent a long time imagining this moment—stepping off the plane and taking my first steps in New York, playing the Jay-Z and Alicia Keys song in my head) But in reality, it wasn't as magical or exciting, because all I could think about was: “Oh my God, we are in America, on a completely different continent, so far from home! What are we supposed to do?!”) But God didn't answer, and I felt more and more panic and anxiety) I think everyone who goes on the Work and Travel program expects something grand and unrealistically awesome... I want to warn other dreamers like me right away and bring them down to earth: America is not another planet, and the people living there are just as ordinary as you and me (well, maybe a little strange, but only at first... later you'll get used to it and become just like them)) And the air there, by the way, is the same, and the sky is no bluer than ours... I'm writing this because I myself thought that even breathing in the USA would feel somehow special.) Well, anyway, we arrived at JFK, picked up our luggage, and went through security. A nice gentleman looked at our documents, stamped our passports with the I-94 form (a small piece of paper that you absolutely cannot lose, and you must return it when you leave), and wished us a great summer. After that, we happily wandered off to find representatives from our agency so they could tell us how to get to the Port Authority bus station. To our great disappointment, we found out that since we arrived at the end of June, the agency representatives were no longer meeting anyone... And right then, a Russian immigrant man ran up to us, deciding to profit from poor, lost students. He started offering us various services for almost “peanuts,” but we politely declined and went outside. There, we saw a guy we had flown with on the plane, and he advised us to take a Shuttle Bus that was just about to leave. This Shuttle Bus took us to Port Authority for 18 bucks. While we were driving to our station, I somehow managed to hold back my emotions... JFK itself is located in Queens, and honestly, there wasn't much to see there. But as soon as we entered Manhattan, it was like I ended up in the “Sex and the City” series. Life in this city doesn't just flow, it boils... crowds of people everywhere, everyone is in a hurry, everyone is busy with their own business... and all around are huge billboards, advertisements, and more people, taxis... Well, anyway, they brought us right to the Port Authority building, we grabbed our luggage, and went inside. Port Authority is a huge building with tons of cafes, shops, information desks, etc., on every floor. We somehow found the place where they sold tickets for Greyhound (a very famous company providing bus transportation within America). And that's where we had to decide exactly where we were going. A ticket to Cody, the town I desperately wanted to visit, cost a whole 265 bucks (per person, of course), and it took 3 whole days to get there... all of this didn't make Asel very happy, and she started trying to persuade me to go to some other, closer state... But I wasn't going to back down from my goal, and in the end, we had 2 tickets to Cody with a buuuunch of transfers) Unfortunately, the ticket was for the next day, and we needed somewhere to spend the night since we were exhausted from the long journey. We dropped off our luggage right there at Port Authority, paying about 8 bucks each. Stepping outside, we felt the so-called “culture shock” in full force. Perhaps that was the moment I started disliking this New York... how do people even live there?! The city, in fact, is terribly dirty... I guess I'll be the only person who didn't like this praised New York, but a city this noisy and crowded just isn't for me... I felt like I was suffocating there... We couldn't even step aside and think calmly—there were people everywhere! W

АБАнастасия Безуглаяasti17 · 19 oct. 2010Lire

Our next stop was Key West. Perhaps not everyone knows this place, so it's better to explain that the Florida Keys are a chain of islands in the south of Florida, and Key West is the southernmost of them. It was around 10 p.m. when our bus reached the last island. We gathered our things slowly, stepped off the bus yawning and stretching, and almost fell over! I stood on the steps, gulping down the air, unable to get enough. I wanted to dissolve into that sweet evening air... It was a mix of everything: the scent of flowers, the sea breeze, the warmth of the departing day, and the bitter smoke of cigars... For the first time in my life, I felt like I knew how to breathe. I don't know the best words to describe this place... Forget everything you knew about America and try to imagine a small island washed by the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. Where the streets are full of Cubans selling coconuts and rolling cigars. Where they make the most delicious pie in the world – Key West Lime Pie. Where every evening on the waterfront, they celebrate the sunset with dances, shows, and fireworks. You can try to imagine it, but it's better to see it with your own eyes. Believe me, you'll find plenty to do there! #KeyWest #FloridaKeys

AAAnna Akmagambetovaanna1125 · 1 févr. 2015Lire

Here the aircraft's chassis lifts off the runway. Behind me: the hassle with documents, queues at the bank, jitters at the embassy, a trip across all of Kazakhstan (because it would have been too simple to just go from Aktobe to Astana and return to Aktobe, better to make a little detour, let's say via Almaty, but that's a slightly different story), packing things (that is, equipping a faithful backpack that has seen a bit too much for its kind), giving my mother valerian and convincing my father of my sanity and independence, early exams... So what's ahead? Holidays in America, a dream, if not of every second person, then certainly of half)) 12 hours on a plane is not the easiest way to spend time. You have to force restless yourself to sit in one seat, changing poses from the cultured person on the plane to a bundle of clothes and blanket (yes, it can be cool at that altitude) asleep on the fold-down tray. And when all the books have been reread (2), all the films rewatched (3), all the games replayed, your body has grown used to being a jelly-like approximation and your shoulder has adapted to being a pillow for a snoring friend, it's already hard to believe that there is land somewhere out there. Landing. Hello, America. Alicia Keys' voice automatically starts singing in my head, competing with Frank Sinatra. This is New York. Yes, this is still just the terminal. But there's an indescribable feeling of satisfaction as if you crossed the Atlantic Ocean not by plane but with a jetpack. A long line at passport control. You naively think this is the last time Russian will be heard in such quantity around. A smiling border guard politely asks to place fingers one by one on the scanner to take fingerprints. Either accustomed to working with foreigners not always well-versed in English, or noticing the puppy-like delight on my face, bordering on idiocy, he didn't torment me much and quickly sent me to find baggage. Thank all the gods that I managed to fit everything necessary into a small bag and could move around light, I notice my friend's huge suitcase. I started dreaming. From the airport we were headed to Atlantic City, New Jersey. We had mapped the route back in KZ, the trip went without adventures, only with a bunch of photos)) The only problem was when, trying to call the employer from the bus station, we tried to stuff 50 cents into the payphone. True, European ones. We fussed for a long time, got indignant, cursed technology of all kinds, but then of course laughed heartily at our own idiocy. And here we already sit at the nearly empty Atlantic City terminal, with us are other students, but from Russia somehow. Our employer arrives. How you look at it, the USA is a country of big opportunities, big distances, big cars and corresponding people. We signed a contract with a large company that organizes camping across the country. Good salary, free housing, availability of overtime, one minus—we lived in the woods on the camp grounds. A little less than an hour and we arrive. Around us a most beautiful forest, a private (almost) lake, a gym, a pool and cozy small trailers. Some disappointment because of the considerable distance from the city was slightly softened by the news that the ocean was twenty minutes from the camp. Too bad no one specified that this was by car. They give us bicycles. Best friends of almost every J-1 student. Or the worst enemy. Depends on how you look at it. The choice of iron steed was made by my friend's Tatar cunning and my German resignation. Choosing from the two remaining, she grabbed a presentable mountain bike, proudly shining in the sun. I, a person who last sat on a bike at around 15, got an experienced (judging by the rust) thin-wheeled contraption the color of any Barbie dress, as it turned out in August still with the handlebars flipped. But one should remember that here, as with people, you can't guess what hides behind a pretty exterior. And so I flew as on a two-wheeled Formula One