The nonstop jolts of the plane wake me and outside the window I see endless chains of mountains. It’s as if I am floating above a 7th grade art project made of mounds of brownish red clay and powder sugar for the extra touch of snow on the very tips. The clouds are like cotton candy, airily encompassing the tops of the highest peaks. Then they disappear into the still world of complete flatness. Homes and farmland appear in a miniature depiction of a far off town that seems hidden to the world by the height of the surrounding landscape. The plane is low as if we should be landing within seconds, but we don’t. Instead, we continue at the same altitude, watching the scenery change below like a set of rotating slides until I see it. The details, the water, a beautiful city below, and we have touched down.

Goosebumps rise from the bare skin of my arms and legs from the cool air caused by the boat’s movement. There is mild cloud coverage, as the weatherman would say, but the sun still shines with force through my sunglasses. The water creates an opaque floor of aqua blue around the ferryboat. It is the color of the sky before a storm colored by an artist in a shade of sea foam green. The surrounding city, lacking buildings over two stories in height, floats effortlessly, like a barge, in the water. The muted colors of the stone homes are breathtaking, their true beauty having been revealed through age, every creaking door and wrinkle of paint telling a story. In this moment age is desirable, sought after even.

The midnight black of the gondolas makes this feel like a ride at Disney World. Everyone but the tourists seem to fit. Elongated boats seamlessly shift in and out of my focus, maneuvering through the maze of water bearing roads. The light is blinding, reflecting off their glossy coated exterior wood. Their sleek design something of envy for my Naval Architecture brother. I too am envious of their impeccable look, having the desire to one day return and float effortlessly through the passageways of Venice in such a magnificent boat. Possibly a clich� desire, as even the captain bears a white sailors hat for dramatic effect. However, clich�s are developed for a reason. They are the most beautiful sights and words imaginable, only formed from peoples’ longing to experience them for themselves.

Although Venice is a readily used location in movies and artwork, even the cinema cannot do justice to Venice’s delicacy. It is picturesque and accomplished, paradisiacal in every flaw.  I could sit beside the water’s edge for hours, watching the various boats shuffle before me, and I do. The Rialto Bridge stands only twenty feet to me left, covered in specs of tourists rotating toward the railing to capture the ideal reminder of their vacation to the city of water. The sounds emitting from my headphones provide a soothing soundtrack to the image. My feet dangle only inches above the liquid road and a mob of people with busy days shuffle in either direction behind me. The words of varying languages mix into almost the buzzing of a beehive, only audible if you perk your ears toward the source. I don’t want this moment, this perfectly unplanned and spontaneous image before me, to dissipate into the slow breeze of the air surrounding me, and an underlying happiness begins to flood my emotions like a cresting wave.

The bell tower of St. Mark’s square is smaller in stature than Big Ben. The layers of red brick climb high into the sky, topped with a Peter Pan shaped hat of warn green tin. The downscaled size in Epcot seemingly exact, only the surrounding buildings here creating a varied atmosphere. The square is too large to see in its entirety from one vantage point, the mass of tourists acting like fog, detracting from its visibility. Two story buildings painted in white with arc shaped openings etched out from the second story line one portion of the square. Cafes line the streets in front, the only division from one to the next being the change in color of the chairs surrounding white linen drawn tables being set by waiters in full suits. Classical music pours from every corner as we walk, being produced by tux wearing musicians playing amongst the tables of every caf�.

At night the Grand Canal is inspiring but not lit up and glowing in the darkness of night like most cities. Instead, the weathered walls are nearly invisible, the buildings’ colors undistinguishable. At dinner we are given a lesson of elementary Italian, learning the manners of saying hello by our waiter. Soon thereafter the table beside us is filled with three Italian couples wearing cocktail dresses and suit jackets, laughing, sharing stories while they easily empty a bottle of wine. Upon the recommendation of the waiter, I order a pasta dish consisting of spaghetti, oil, garlic, and pepper flakes. The portion is one-third the size served in American restaurants and immediately quiets my hunger, while still saving room to enjoy the promised gelato. The open door of the restaurant allows a slight breeze to persist throughout our meal. Later, by our hotel, the winding streets of too expensive to even enter stores are full of life as families and friends alike embrace their vacations.

The next morning I end the trip in the same awe as I entered, the cool breeze off the water sending my loose hair flowing in a desired direction, a slideshow of buildings shifting before me, and a smile of contentment on my face as I cherish the thirty minute boat ride to the train station.

I step off of the train in Verona confidently, a week’s worth of possessions thrown into my school backpack. Using only the picture I took of the “you are here” sign at the train station we make our way to the hotel easily. Our balcony actually overlooks the very tracks we just left, to either side sit quaint Italian style homes with a small town feel. I jump on my bed and am instantly in heaven! The pillow is made from the material of a down comforter, an upgrade from the one hundred year old square of a pillow that lacks density that I sleep with in Seville. The comforter forms perfectly to my body and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s going to be so nice to be home again. Suddenly missing the comforts I am accustomed to.

After the recommendation of the hotel, the guide of a map, and grumbling stomachs, we head into the main part of the city with our first destination being food. We are thinking Italian! The sight of the main town is absolutely stunning, exactly what I would expect from quaint Italy. The number of tourists is minimal and as we walk down the jagged sidewalks we see locals embracing each other, having run into one another on a day out with their families. Family operated restaurants and bakeries fill the first floor of most building in the town’s center. The endless noise being produced from our hours of hunger place a pause in our enjoyment of the scenery. It is almost three o’clock and we only ate bread and Nutella this morning for breakfast. We make a half turn and follow the hotel’s recommendation to a nearby pizzeria. Luckily we only have to comb through a few winding side streets before recognizing the restaurant’s sign.

A patio is set up outside of the front door, housing two full tables of patrons. We pause a moment at the entrance as we gain stares from those within sight. I am accustomed to being seated or instructed by the minimum, a sign, to seat myself. As is the norm in Europe we simply choose a table within easy view of the waitress. When I seat myself menus instantly appear on the table, along with cups and silverware. My mouth is now watering at the immanent idea of the pizza that will soon appear before my waiting eyes.  After learning our Italian is, well, nonexistent, the waitress repeats herself in broken English confusing even a native speaker with her words. From our blank stares and mum lips, she decides to repeat herself again. “The kitchen closed. I can’t give you food. Open at six.” Why would you give me a menu if you can’t make any food? Is this some mean trick you all play on tourists because I can clearly see the locals eating next to me? “I’ll let you think about that and decide.” She says before she disappears inside. What is there to decide?

We uncomfortably stand, the squeaking from the metal feet of my chair against the cobblestone street don’t make this defeat any less awkward, others’ stares making me feel as if I am being observed under a microscope, outside of my natural habitat. As soon as we are no longer within earshot we both simultaneously burst into laughter like a firework on the fourth of July. Instinctually my hand reaches toward the pain in my stomach, my body hunched over in an almost standing fetal position. When I attempt to walk my feet only stumble over each other, almost causing my body to lose balance and fall toward the stone floor. After regaining some composure, we recount the previous moment having decided to eat at the next restaurant we pass. We enter the main road again, our mouths parched with thirst, our mind causing daydreams of food, but every restaurant door is closed. Every sign reading: Lunch: 12-3pm, Dinner: 6-9pm. WHAT? “We have to wait three more hours?” I cry out as if I am in excruciating pain. “How hard is it to find a slice of pizza in Italy?” I ask rhetorically as we stammer along.

In an effort to distract ourselves from the likely fact that our stomachs are currently self-mutilating themselves for relief, we select sight seeing as a distraction. In the middle of the main street sits an amphitheater. Its location in the middle of the road is similar to a tree forceful enough to break through the very center of a dirt walkway, causing everyone to choose a side for travel. It’s stone is a lighter brown, faded by the same powerful sun that causes varying shades of exterior paint of an older home to wear. The amphitheater is miniature compared to the dwarfing size of the Coliseum in Rome. Only a few blocks to the left of the landmark we see a stone archway. The warn stone is unrecognizable under years of names and stories handwritten and painted in a rainbow of colors, like wallpaper covering the original beauty of a home. The twenty-foot long archway leads into a small square formed by the exterior of three different buildings. Above and to the right, protruding from the stone is a perfectly weathered, hand carved balcony straight out of a fairytale book from my childhood. There is even a hint of familiarity in its design. This is Juliet’s balcony, from Shakespeare’s story of Romeo and Juliet. It is simple yet elegant and breathtaking in an optimistically romantic kind of way. As if all women will one day have a balcony similar, where the love of their lives will climb to reach them. Standing here, watching the hundreds of people in awe around me, I understand why our World needs fairytales and movies with happy endings; we need the hope. We need this ideal to get us through until we meet someone we love exactly in the World in which we live, reality. I capture the image in the reflection of my eyes before relinquishing my spot for someone new to admire its beauty and significance. 

The next day I choose a car in the middle of the train, upon recommendation of my brother years ago before I left on my first solo train ride. “Always remember to pick a seat in the middle of the train,” he instructed, “If there is a collision that will be the safest place to be.” Ever since, I have followed his directions as precisely as possible.

At the first sight of two empty seats together I drop down my bag. Seconds haven’t passed before we are being instructed of something in Italian. The woman appears to be in her late thirties and is gesturing to the two empty seats across from us. I shake my head apologetically. “Do you speak English?” I nod my head in answer. In fluent English she explains to us that we have assigned seats on our tickets, we are currently sitting in hers. She is kind, no glimpse of anger in her eyes. As I relinquish my seat to her I feel as if I am a helpless child, requiring the aid of others to care for me. Here I am, in her native country, not following the rules and she is forced to explain them to me in a second language. Suddenly I’m embarrassed at myself that I hadn’t even bothered to learn simple phrases in Italian before my trip. I was selfish in knowing that I would likely always be able to find someone to translate for me. I pride myself on my independence but now I realize how much of this trip I will need to rely on someone else’s assistance.

An hour and a half later we step onto the platform in Milan and make our way toward the street while searching for hidden signs to lead us to our hotel. The surrounding buildings remind me of a typical American city, like the New York City of Italy. There are far less historical sights than most tourist destinations. Instead, four and five level shops more intricately designed than I have ever seen before fill the void. The buildings are so tall that there is no distance to be seen from street level. A mix of languages creates a roar in the bustling streets from an eclectic mix of ethnicities. This diversity is something that was missing from Venice and Verona.

The famous shopping district does not disappoint. It is home to everything from Louis Vuitton to Rolex. The buildings here are different than those of the remaining city and lower end shopping streets, giving off a cozier homey feel. Their heights are more modest and are painted in warm hues. Red Ferraris are casually parked outside the store entrances. The locals are dressed as if they are all headed to a formal ball; sparkling heels and diamond jewelry are the norm. Those dressed more casually still pair jean shorts with a sophisticated cotton candy pink business jacket and Gucci sunglasses. The clothing of the children matches the atmosphere perfectly. A six-year-old boy is dressed in pine needle green pants paired with a collard dress shirt and a navy blue sweater, even though he is climbing a jungle gym at a nearby park.

The main park in the area is reminiscent of the grounds of Central Park in New York. Tall trees and large grassy openings are connected with dirt paths. On one side of the park a carnival like setting has been constructed. From balloons and cotton candy to water rides and prize-winning games it is every little kids dream location, in a city with everything else one could desire.

Our next stop is the Duomo, and elegantly carved church. The exterior walls so intricately carved into a beautiful masterpiece of art left to the elements. The stone is the color of whipping cream, points carved from the roof as if warding off an attack from above. Every inch has been purposefully designed into a flawless appearance. Even upon close investigation the hits of a chisel have been forgotten, smoothed over by time.

Nearby sits a gelato shop recommended to us by a fellow abroad student. The shop is located on a corner, its double doors held open by a mob of waiting patrons. Under close observation, through the cracks of moving bodies, we think we have learned the system. It’s similar to a deli counter. You pay the cashier, receive a slip strewn with a number, and then you wait to be called. The cashier hands me my slip, number 60. I look up toward the current number highlighted on the wall above, 21. This is going to take a while, but it looks like it will be worth it. With gelato on every corner in the city, like Starbuck in the U.S., there must be a reason this place has sixty people waiting for their gelato. When my number is called I push through the waiting mass to the counter. The cone-bearing employee asks my preference of chocolate. Behind him sit three chocolate fountains of milk, white, and dark chocolate, respectively. “Milk,” I decide. I then ask for a mix of vanilla and Nutella gelato flavors but the LANGUAGE BARRIER is lifted. The confused look on his matches mine like a pair of mimes. A few uncomfortable moments pass before he says something in Italian, I nod, leaving my dessert at his mercy.

He hands me his creation, it is almost a work of art. Two layers of creamy glue textured gelato have been layered over the milk chocolate filled homemade cone, drizzled with warm Nutella and stuck with a purple colored tasting sized spoon and wafer cookie. The bottom flavor is the beige of an Army uniform, the top as pure as snow. I don’t make it through the crowd and out of the shop before a spoonful has made it to my salivating mouth. The warm Nutella is the icing of a freshly baked cupcake, melting down the sides from the force of gravity. The taste of white chocolate ignites my taste buds and there is the sensation of a silky smooth wave of flavor coating my tongue. Never before have I tasted a flavor so perfectly matched and exact, indescribable and unimaginable.

The flavor below I decide is peanut butter, tasting as if scooping a creamy spoonful into your mouth, without the consequence of it sticking to the roof. At the bottom of the cone lies the biggest present of all, as if saving the best for last on Christmas day, a pot of gold, a pool of warm chocolate. It hasn’t soaked through the cone nor dripped through the point, instead it simply waits patiently. Simply put, the best gelato I have ever tasted.

 

Now off to Germany:

It’s like I’m lost in a forest at night, the world around me unrecognizable to all degrees. I see the faint figure of a sign in the distance but can’t determine its meaning. Suddenly, like the liberty of a dam, a flood of people circle around me, shuffling past in oblivion of my need for help. The train station in Frankfurt is as large in stature at Grand Central only German words mines well be Chinese characters because they offer no aid. I can’t even find an exit! Note to self: always learn the word for exit before traveling to a foreign country. The language is unsettling at first, the pronunciation sounding infuriated with one another as they speak.

We move toward a wall, as if to provide protection from the imminent probability of our trampling. We stare at the large city map painted on the wall, German words flooding my sight. I don’t even know where to begin. Our hotel is outside the city, making this more of a struggle, but after navigating the metro stations flawlessly in Paris, Madrid, and London I am an amateur, unable to even find metro lines let alone navigate toward our destination. Helpless as we can be we stare blankly, unsure really of what we should do. This hasn’t ever happened to us. I feel like a lost child searching frantically for her mother in a bustling crowd, too short to see the faces of the passersby. Out of the corner of my eye I see a group of police officers about to pass so I catch their attention and ask for help.

A young man stops the group and patiently listens to my hopeless situation. His face is kind and not hard on the eyes I notice. With bleach blond hair freshly cut, childish dimples and a kind smile he looks to be around 24 and more than willing to help. He immediately pulls out his phone, typing in the address for directions as he instructs, in German, another officer to search the wall size map beside us. It is a full force effort with four officers helping us. “Come with us,” the officer says as he faces me. We comply and begin to walk with them through the train station, the entourage of officers makes it appear to those around us as if we are on our way to German prison, somewhere I don’t have a desire to see.

The architecture of the homes is castlesque, free standing, with the use of different angles and even the occasional rounded pillar. A mix of beige and a variety of deep chocolate browns coats the homes and trim respectively. Together the buildings that have been kept through history are stunning, their small town feel unmistakable. Small, hand painted wooden signs hang outside taverns and show glass windows, displaying traditional German fair. The skyscrapers that have been built over the rubble of historic bombings dwarf this area of aged buildings in Romerberg. At eye level the city disappears, the landscape appearing to have been painted into the pages of a storybook. A large river slices seamlessly through the city, separating the tourists and businessmen with the locals.

We venture to the tourist free area and enter a tavern with endless rooms of picnic benches, gaining stares from ever local who need no more than seconds to realize the elephant we have brought into the room. We are instructed to sit next to strangers, two German girls appearing in their late twenties. I receive confirmation of the local atmosphere when I open the menu to find nothing but German strewn across the busy pages. There isn’t even a picture to be found. Upon entering we saw a green wreath hanging beside the door, signifying that the restaurant served a local favorite, homemade apple wine and luckily we have the aid of a travel book to recommend what to order as our main meal.

On the other side of town is a full market, complete with fresh vegetables, flowers, nuts, raw meats and sausages, pastries, and homemade pastas. The colors and rows of displays are almost overwhelming, stacked on top of one another, one snowflake away from an avalanche. I can see a line forming in front of a makeshift window next to a meat counter full of extremes, including cow tongue. They appear to be purchasing precooked sausage, almost like a hot dog stand outside a baseball game. I decide to be a follower and risk eating mystery meat so I enter the back of the line. When my turn approaches I simply point to the women before me, signifying I want the same thing, partly because it looks edible and more so because I have no idea what anything on the menu means. I receive a large, thick part hotdog part sausage with a pretzel roll and spicy mustard splattered on the side of my paper plate. I decide not to dissect the ingredients of the meat before the first taste. To my surprise it is delicious, no fowl taste to be found. It has been heated, cooked likely in a pot of steaming water and the meat’s juices are liberated with every bite. The mustard is intense, and packs a punch even when outsized by the sausage, however the flavors mix seamlessly, creating a new and welcomed flavor. I have come to learn that sometimes street food gives more to the local taste than most fancy restaurant ever can.

Our next stop is Munich, home of the 1972 Olympic games. The location has, for the most part, been preserved, though its space seems empty, only jogging enthusiasts and bicyclists use the open-air walkways today. Swimmers of all ages and abilities glide through the pool where Mark Spitz beat the then record for most number of gold medal earned. Only the forgotten ticket booths have been left to rust besides the once marvelous stadiums. It is known as Olympic Park for a reason and yields long stretches of green grass, park benches, and even a man made lake.

The next morning we decide to visit Neuschwanstein castle, located outside of the city. We cross the platform at a run and explode onto the train through the first open door only to find rows and rows of seats, all occupied. Not a single space available. The next train isn’t for another hour and there isn’t time for second thoughts as the train has already been placed into motion. We find space in the bike car consisting of five fold down seats, already occupied, row of bike racks on all sides, and empty space, to stand. Really? It’s a two and a half hour ride. My timidity only last moments until I let my knees buckles and my butt land on the plastic covered floor. It takes me a few minutes to realize what I am hearing around me, English. Everyone is speaking English! It’s almost as if this eclectic group of Americans have been arrested and thrown into the cargo space of the train for transport to our certain doom in jail, having been planned, practiced and implemented to a T in order to summon the Americans to the dirty floor of a bike car. Beside me lye three college students from Chicago and one from Australia who are all studying Abroad in England this semester. In front of me, sitting on the improvement of a plastic fold down chair are a mother and daughter pair on a trip given for the girl’s high school graduation. Next to them is a mother visiting her grown daughter currently working in Germany and next to her is a young retired, previously enlisted, member of the Air Force, with whom we spend the remainder of our day.

The castle is grand in stature, stretching high into the snowcapped mountains lined with forests, surrounding it like a green blanket. The sun creates a glow around the stone bearing angles of its architecture causing my eyes to squint as I take in its beauty. The location is serene, a butterfly in a lonely forest, sitting upon nothingness, taking joy in the silence and breathtaking 360 degree view.

The view from the window of the train during the return trip is no less enchanting. Tall pine trees stretching into the sky make lines of divides in healthy hills of green grass, snow covered mountains acting as their back drop. Small homes, all with matching reddish brown roofs and beige walls sit in the open fields of the hills with stacks of fresh chopped wood awaiting the winter months, no neighbors in sight. Isolation, beauty on all sides, the mountains so far away yet an essential part of the landscape. The clouds wrap the tops of the highest mountain peaks in a loose hug, the other peaks protrude arbitrarily into the clear blue sky above at jagged angles. Only the sound of the train as it rolls by disrupts the peacefulness of the surrounding earth.  

As I walk through the metal detector at the Munich airport the next day en route home, or should I say the airport two hours outside the city in as much of a field as Penn State, I am thanked for not setting off the alarm to the metal detector, presumably making the jobs of the grateful, wand bearing employees on the other side much easier. Unfortunately I can’t say my encounter with the next employee is as cordial.

 I understand when I am asked to unzip my bag after it exits x -ray but shortly thereafter regret my comprehensive response when she continues speaking to me in rapid German. I wait for her to finish and simply say, “sorry?” with eyebrows drawn and a very confused look on my face. I can see it form, the smile illuminating her face, and she bursts into laughter at my incompetence. When the laughter is subdued she begins again, this time in English.

She is rummaging through my bag, apparently having a complaint with the way I pack and fail to follow German security protocol. My prepackaged packets of Nutella I took from the hotel are supposed to be in my bag of liquids, my camera must be turned on to ensure it can’t be used as a weapon, and she confiscates my small jar of salsa. My salsa! Excuse me but I do not consider my jar of salsa, sitting next to my half eaten bag of tortilla chips a liquid let alone a threat to national security. I call it breakfast, or at least it was supposed to be. Now, if they had confiscated my chips with it I would have know she was just hungry, trying to pilfer the food for her own enjoyment.

I spend the next three hours sitting on a plane returning to Spain, my stomach growling, and my tired mind day dreaming of my se�ora’s meal upon my return. 

Location: Venice, Italy; Verona, Italy; Milan, Italy; Frankfurt, Germany; Munich, Germany

A piece of paper entitled “London Itinerary” is nicely folded in the front pocket of my backpack, but I don’t reach for it when we emerge from our first tube station. Instead my eyes are fixated on the mesmerizing structure before me, Big Ben. Up close the clock is intimidating against my generously measured 5’5″ frame. I don’t even notice that my feet have stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my jaw dropped in awe, until I almost loose my balance from the knocking of passing pedestrians. It doesn’t feel real, being here, after seeing scenes of this city in movies and pictures. It’s almost as if I have been dropped onto the soundstage of a movie, unknowingly being tricked into the belief that I am actually in England when I haven’t so much as left the country. I walk aimlessly around the structure, capturing photographs from every angle, each time thinking this view is better than the last.

My eyes squint when I peer toward the water to my left. I can see the picturesque bridge stretching across the steady flow of the river. On the other side of the gap sits The Eye, an extraordinary piece of engineering. The glass-encased bubbles of the Ferris wheel appear almost motionless from afar. Heavy clouds fill the sky above, predicting rain for the coming afternoon.

I find myself turning in circles as I cross the bridge, unsure of which direction to look. Even on an overcast day the buildings shimmer in the twinkle of rays peaking through the clouds like a game of hide and go seek. I let my eyes wonder effortlessly around, capturing the image for my memory. And for the first time since my arrival it sinks in, I’m actually in London! Amazing!

Map-less and hungry for our first London adventure we cross through the bustling streets, entering Hyde Park. As the Central Park of London it transports walkers into a forest of trees and colorful, blooming plants, full of open hills of grass perfect for picnics, and complete with a steady river and pool inhabited by silky white swans. Boathouses sit by the water’s edge adding a flawless accent of architecture to the surrounding natural allure of the area. I would happily get lost walking along the dirt paths and through the exceptional gardens for hours.

A rusty green colored sculpture of a swan towers confidently into the clearing sky on the opposite side of the water from me. Its strength can’t be missed even though it is partially camouflaged by a small patch of trees to one side.  Behind it lays a subtle black iron fence housing the Princess Diana Memorial. I enter the gate silently, paying my respects as I observe the simplicity of the fountain. Low to the ground and made from what appears to be granite; it’s almost as if the shallow floor turns to bright marble under the timid flow of the clear water. I walk further and harsh waves instantaneously form from the previously still liquid. Mountains have been carved out, leaving trepid falls below the water. My speed is constant, but the incline of an upcoming curve sends the waves into a race as if there was a toddler splashing down a flowing water slide. Then the water brings your emotions full circle, culminating in the very pool in which the flow began.

The next morning we join a mix of locals and tourists alike, moving like a pack of wolves down the crowded streets of Portobello Road, all searching to uncover something brilliant. Known as Portobello Market, this strip of land is full of life even this early on a Saturday morning. The buildings are painted in an array of dim shades, one no more overpowering than the next. Doors to shops are held open by warn rocks, merchandise filling tables outside, enticing passersby to stop. Up above on the next corner I see a fire engine red building, the front door carved out of the streamline curve of the building’s corner. Alice’s is written four feet wide and hand painted on the building above the door. The sight attracts my attention, my feet unconsciously moving in its direction with purpose faster than when they’re searching for the relief of cool water after walking across the hot coals of sand on a excruciatingly hot summer day at the beach.

The charming shop is full of antiques arbitrarily stacked and hung from ever crevice, the walls barely visible behind the lure of the objects.  There are glass cabinets full of tea sets and dated cameras, wooden airplane models hang above as if they are midflight, and stacks of old fashioned suitcases fitted with broken locks sit in the corner. A few steps down bring me to another room plastered just as thoroughly in objects as the last. The sun sifting in from an open door casts shadows on a replica sailboat perched atop an aged and dented brown trunk. 

I move on, walking throughout the store searching every inch with my eyes as if I’m looking for buried treasure in a sunken ship. The store is a clutter of happiness and stories. I imagine each piece of furniture taking home in someone’s life, piecing the room together in my mind as if I am an HGTV designer. After making my purchases I walk out the storefront, claiming the clutter of this eclectic mix of items my favorite store thus far in London and deeply professing my love for Portobello Market.

Next we stroll past the remaining stores and make our way to a recommended caf�. After both deciding on a chicken and avocado BLT we decide to celebrate London in the first way that comes to mind. We order a piece of triple chocolate cake visible in the glass case from our table. There’s just one catch, “we would like that cake first, please.” I ask the waitress. Surprisingly she doesn’t find that the slightest bit weird and simply cuts it from the full cake sitting in a nearby cooler and delivers it to our table. Spoil our meal or not, we devour its entirety within minutes.

Though not the traditional fish n’ ships one may expect to be out first real meal in England it was none the less as delicious as previously predicted from the language of the menu, including a warm homemade roll to encase the fresh ingredients.

Next, with our stomachs full, we head toward The Eye. I enter the glass room via a moving conveyer belt and they slide back the door locking twenty strangers in a glass oval. If it weren’t for the amazing sights that come into view while perched atop the moving wheel it would have been like getting stuck in an elevator for a half hour. However instead of forced small talk and uneasiness there are only polite offerings to take pictures for one another.

The sun is setting, turning the heavy cloud covering into brilliant shades of pink and orange as if I was watching a watercolorist paint the sky before me. When we lift higher into the London sky the buildings below become more and more unrecognizable. Only the distinct face of one side of Big Ben’s clock can be seen from the highest point. I watch it move as I take a seat on the handrail that projects out over the edge, beyond the solid floor below. Surprisingly, neither the height nor the possibility of a seemingly fatal drop to my death brings fear to me. Instead I simply peer out into the skyline, enjoying the view, wanting to circle to the top once again when only the lights of the city are visible. 

March 3rd-5th

Location: London, England

They call it The Line, the farthest town the Spanish community recognizes exists. Is seems they are still bitter about their failed attempts at acquiring the UK territory of Gibraltar and there is this unspoken rule that no one will recognize it’s existence, instead you visit la linea. The single lane of cars awaiting entrance across the boarder follows the coastline and is longer than that of the gates of the Magic Kingdom on opening day. “We still have to find a place to stay tonight.” My friend interrupts as we step off the bus. “I guess we really are winging it this time.” I respond without worry. As we approach the boarder security is heavy, if it wasn’t for the inattentive man spending more time watching the seconds pass on his watch than the name on my passport I would have never known I changed countries. I sighed in disappointment as I crossed the boarder, having realized I wouldn’t be receiving a stamp in my passport. Suddenly, a familiarity grew over me; English.

We roamed the country for hours, having been unable to acquire a map, relying on the scattered road signs placed every mile or so along the main road. We finally arrive on Main Street, which was about the same caliber of a Maine town in the summer, only without people. Shops were closed and it was only the British street lamps guiding our way. “Are you looking for things to do tonight?” a soft voice asks in a perfect British accent. “Well, it’s quite early. Most of the kids are at home eating dinner, but there are quite a few bars and restaurants up this way and a few others over by the marina.” She offers. We kindly thank her and as she walks away a notice the smile that has emerged on my face. “I miss that. People simply being nice and polite and offering their assistance, that doesn’t happen in Spain. I miss manners.” I say as we continue walking, ranting about the things we have come to miss about the US.

We settled on one of the bars the woman had recommended and took a seat at a table near the door. The pub is that of a ship theme with full sized sails and all. The mostly empty bar area is filled with an eclectic mix of individuals of all ages. The classics are blaring over the speakers and the tvs are showing a rugby match and everyone ends sentences with “cheers!”. I order a cheeseburger and coke from the bar and wait patiently for the first taste of American food I have had in over a month.  As the plate is set down in front of me, I have never been happier to devour a cheeseburger, and devour I did. I finish off the last fry as the song Don’t Stop Believing spits through the speakers above. The entire room, in unison, recites the lyrics as loudly as possible and I can’t help but think I’m back at a middle school dance.

The next day the alarm on my iPhone wakes me before the sunrise. A half hour later we are walking through the deserted town and around the giant rock that sits on the majority of the land of Gibraltar, in an effort to see the sun rise on the beach. Although I wouldn’t call this a beach, I’m pretty sure my sandbox as a child was larger. Even so, I tossed off my sandals, through down my bag, and ran towards the water. The sunrise was absolutely gorgeous and for the first time since last year I remembered the joy of the ocean.

We spent more time than we had allocated by the water, but it was well worth it. Our next stop was a cable car for a three-minute ride to the top of the rock.  The 360-degree view from the top was well worth the ride and as we began our walk down, we spotted our first monkeys. They were sun bathing atop the rocks of the cliff, playing with each other and staring at the tourists passing by. My favorite was a baby monkey who made his way towards me, grabbing my hand in an effort to release the ring from my middle finger. As we continued walking my friend stops, hands me her camera, drops her backpack, and begins walking in the direction of a monkey sitting in the middle of the path. When she is about half the distance the monkey makes it a race and dashes toward her backpack grabbing a hold of one of the straps as my friend manages to grab the other. Then it becomes a game of tug-a-war, complete with an audience of tourists yelling in different languages for her not to let go of the bag. With the monkey’s free arm he begins opening the zipper closest to him and starts pulling out its contents. Then he found the half eaten package of the best cookies you can find in Spain, grabs a hold of them, releases his grip on everything else, and fleas to the corner while ripping open the package. We are still in shock as the first cookie enters his mouth. After that, our view of the monkeys was not the same. Every time we passed, the monkey would be motionless, except for its eyes as they follow your movement like the Mona Lisa.

The rest of the day was spent climbing up and down the rock, walking through age-old tunnels, and exploring a cave. The cave was even equipped with a stage for concerts. Which led me to wonder what kind of acoustics a cave offered. Here are some pictures of the trip!

The view of the sunset as we walked across the Gibraltar airport runway.

Sunrise from the beach.

The monkeys!!

View from the rock with Morocco behind me!

Concert hall in the cave.

The rock that is Gibraltar!

Location: Gibraltar

I let the loose strap of my purse slide off my shoulder and fall to the ground with a “thud” as I pass through the threshold of my room. In one swift motion I slip off my boat shoes and dive head first onto my bed as if I were attempting to win a belly flop contest at a summer pool party. As I reach for my computer I notice a new addition to my room, an air freshener. Estoy constipado, meaning, “I’m stuffed up”, leaving me without the ability to smell. I look around my room, searching for the cause of the smell that required the air freshener. Unlike the stereotypical European, I shower way more than once a week. I hear a knock at my door and the turning metal of the handle as my se�ora enters telling me my lunch is on the table. Then she walks the four steps to the other side of my room, pointing to the open window, which had previous been closed when I left this morning, and proceeds to tell me that my room smells like leather, or the fake leather that is my $20 Target purse still laying on the floor. She then grabs the air freshener, telling me that she put it in my room to help get rid of this “smell” and ends her monologue by showing me, by turning the top of the liquid air freshener clockwise, how to open and close it. Who needs a manual when you have a demonstration!

As she turns the corner out of my room, and out of sight, I bury my head into the pillow lying next to me and burst into laughter, the fake feathers muffling the sound. After regaining control I stand, neatly pull down on my now wrinkled tank top, take a deep breath and compose myself as I begin the walk to the table.  My se�ora must have restocked her supply of shrimp, as I have lost count of the number of days in the last week we have had shrimp with pasta or rice for lunch. At this point I have given up on attempting to devein the shrimp and have become accustomed to simply eat what is given to me and never asking the name of the mystery meat on my plate. I haven’t taken two bites of my lunch when my se�ora walks toward the table, my pair of bright red pants in hand. According to her they are too wrinkled to acceptably wear outside of the house, so she informs me  that she will iron them. I thank her and when she returns with my wrinkle free pants she stops, staring at them as if it were the Mona Lisa, and finally exclaims, “I really like the red pants! I like your entire wardrobe, you have good taste.” Then follows with a question whose meaning I’m still not entirely sure. “Do you or your mom buy your clothes?” Did she mean in terms of money who buys them, or is she asking if my mother is the one responsible for the style in my wardrobe. I’m not sure about in Spain, but I have been dressing myself for quite a few years now. Unsure, really, of how to answer, I choose to respond with, “both,” as I feel it is the safest. I turn back towards my plate and quickly return to my cooling food as she scurries into a closet nearby.

Before I know it, she returns to the table holding a pair of new shoes, the same pair of new shoes she has showed me on more than one occasion since she bought them less than a week ago. They appear to be made of a black suede material and are in a sort of clog shape. Then she begins listing all of the reasons she prefers to buy more expensive shoes that are of better quality over those less expensive and continues into a rant about the lack of quality in the clothing sold in Spain. More than once she speaks highly of the superior cotton of which our clothing in America is made. I didn’t want to tell her that most of the clothing I had was most likely made in a country other than the US.

Luckily for me my se�ora prefers quality over quantity, as she happily pulled out of the closet every pair of shoes she currently owns, bringing each pair over to the table for me to feel their different materials. Afterward she tells me how much they cost in an effort to prove her previous point even more. I’m not sure I even remember what the last pair of shoes I bought looks like, let alone how much I spent on them. In between shoes I engulf huge bites of my lunch in an effort not to let this meal take three hours. After the shoes come purses. This time she adds where they where she bought them and from whom gave her one as a gift. I tighten my lips, fighting back the large smile growing on my face in an effort not to disrespectfully burst into laughter at this humorous situation.

After the fashion show of accessories, my se�ora joins me with a plate at the table. Just when I think normal conversation will resume she looks toward me and politely orders, “You need to change your deodorant, it’s ruining your clothes!” I almost spit out my mouth full of shrimp at the shear randomness of her desire. Still attempting to keep in the shrimp, and with question, I nod my head and respond with closed lips, “mhhm”. It’s as if she had rehearsed bullet points on the topic like I was going to break out in an argument defending my Spanish deodorant. Her opening statement concluded with the recommendation that I buy the brand of deodorant she uses, explaining that it is perfect for sensitive skin. I’m unsure if the sensitive skin aspect is supposed to be a selling point for me or not. The last time I checked, my armpits weren’t sensitive to her disapproval of their choice of cover-up.

The door of the apartment opens, interrupting my se�ora’s thoughts as she brings to the table her bottle of deodorant to show me, and in walks my se�or. After his greeting he heads to the back of the apartment to use the restroom, door wide open, as usual. It seems, after speaking with friends in other homestays, it is more common for the Spanish individual to use the bathroom with the door open than closed. Thankfully, with the exception of my se�or accidentally walking in on me in the shower and one of the Belgium girls swinging open the closed door of the bathroom this morning while I was brushing me teeth, I have luckily been exempted from the awkwardness that can occur when five practically strangers share the same bathroom.

When my se�or joins us at the table he asks what I did this morning. After relaying my time, spent sun bathing in a tank top while reading a book by the river, my se�ora points out the newly acquired red tint to my face. And then it happened… I made my first joke in Spanish. Telling them that I was out there because I needed to work on my tan so I didn’t stick out so much here with such white skin. I clear my plate and walk away from the table as their laughter fades. And the day is only half over, I think as I smile at the thought of what my life has become. 

Location: Seville, Spain

According to the laws of the United States, I am currently years beyond being a legal adult. However, I have yet to be required to think about all adult things. I am still a child, who becomes more responsible and knowledgeable every day. I am not an adult because, at times, I fail to understand the some of the realities of the world in which I live. I’ve been hidden, protected from the horror and pain in the world that surrounds me. It’s as if my parents covered my eyes so I didn’t see the “gore” of a movie, and muffled my ears when inappropriate words were being said. I understand I am very fortunate to have grown up in the capacity I did, with the parents and resources I was given. I am fortunate to have the opportunity to attend college and to be here, in Spain. These four months were meant to be an adventure, a learning experience.

            Tonight, in midst a heart to heart with my se�ora, I am reminded of why I ventured into the world of the Spanish language. It was not for my resume, or for the likes of anyone else. Instead, and more simply really, it was my desire to learn; my desire to learn about the lives and cultures of others. With the knowledge of another language comes a whole new population of people who can reveal to me their stories.

As I intently listen to my se�ora speak of her families struggles, I can’t help but wish I were able to understand every word. I wished I could tape our conversation and replay it every time I needed to be reminded of parts of the world that have been hidden behind a curtain for me, in a play that no one wishes were true.

It seems to me that my greatest adventures and most meaningful conversations have been without plan. They are not something for which time can be blocked off, and they are not something that can be marked down in your calendar. Instead, they are like a present lost underneath the Christmas tree, not opened until days have passed. Though I opened one of these late Christmas presents last night, an experience I wasn’t planning for has joined the household.

For the next week two girls from Belgium have joined us. My first encounter with them was interesting, to say the least. After having been told the arriving girls were from Germany, not Belgium, you can understand their confusion when I asked them in what part of Germany they lived. After moving beyond my inadequate previous knowledge, we communicated with one another in broken Spanish. However, it seemed that every time I asked a question, and they followed with a response, they would begin speaking with one another, in a language of which I have no knowledge.

Just as I was beginning to feel slightly comfortable in the place I must call home for three more months, this happens. I become an outsider by two new girls at what is supposed to be considered my “home”. When traveling to another country, such as France, I expect to be clueless. But in a country I have now lived in for over a month, and am finally beginning to understand more of, I didn’t expect to have another language thrown at me on a Monday night. In that moment I become an outsider, an outsider in the only place in Spain that has grown familiar. Even my pre-assigned seat at the table had been replaced, causing me to rethink where I belonged.

            I have been replaced by the novelty of something new. Tonight, after returning from class, I unlocked the door to the apartment and turned to my se�ora, cooking in the kitchen, and happily said, “Hola!” After no response I turned to the other members standing by the kitchen table. My se�or was standing five feet away, talking with the “new” girl and they didn’t so much as acknowledge my presence. So I swallowed my pride and silently walked toward my room, softly shutting the door behind me. At home I am the favorite, and as my older brothers remind me, only, daughter of my parents. Yesterday, in my new household, I was an only child and in moments I became one of three. I was the only one of three that was familiar, the other two being new and exciting members of this seemingly ever-growing family.

            At dinner tonight I was no less of an outsider. After the “only Spanish spoken in the house” rule my se�ora established at the end of last night’s meal, the only change as the volume of their voices speaking the foreign language. Tonight their words are whispers, in hushed tones as if they were hiding, hiding from the ears of my se�ora.

            This situation is unlike that with your own children, with whom parents love equally, just not always at the same time, as I have been told. Instead, there can be favorites. It seems this is something I must become accustomed to, as another student will be filling the Belgium girls’ room the day after their departure. It seems as if I am continuously changing from being an only child to one of many, which seems to change any routine of which I have become accustomed.

Location: Sevilla, Spain

There is a chill in the air as the sun begins to rise behind the buildings in the distance. The streets are vacant except for the reminisce of last night´s parties that the cleaning crew are eliminating. The air is still and the fog sits perfectly over the calmness of the river as I walk briskly through the streets I now call home. I have one small backpack slung over my right shoulder and as many layers of clothing as I could manage on my person while still allowing my extremities to move freely. The word necessities encompasses a whole new meaning when I´m only allowed to pack for three days in a backpack not even big enough to hold all of my school books last semester. The winter lows Paris is currently experiencing simple added another level of difficulty to the packing experience. According to weather.com, the current temperature in Paris is -6 degrees Celsius, perfect. The long strides and fast pace of my movement makes me uncomfortably warm under all of my layers as I reach the bus stop, the first of four modes of transportation I will be using today. Five hours later I am stepping off of a bus in the outskirts of the city of Paris.

I take in the moment as my foot touches down on the grounds of Paris for the first time in my life. I pause, as if I am Neil Armstrong returning from the moon for the first time, waiting for someone to trace my very first footsteps. Needless to say, it didn´t happen and my moment was crushed by the line of irritated travelers behind me.  Having handwritten the mapquest directions to our hostel, my friend begins to read aloud the first line, “Head southwest on…” she looks at me, “Do you happen to have a compass?”Oh this is going to turn out well, I begin to think as I have a “light bulb” moment. “I do have a compass!” I express excitedly as I pull out my iPhone and open the compass app that had been preprogrammed and yet to be used. I´ve never been more excited to know which way was North before in my life.

We begin our journey through the streets of Paris, my heart pounding in excitement, using my new camera to document the ENTIRE journey. I am taking pictures of cafés, signs, streets, people, anything I feel is Paris. I turn off my camera and look up in time to see a young boy walking with his mother, ripping off pieces from a baguette. In that moment it had been decided, our first piece of business in Paris was to find a freshly baked baguette. Peering through every glass window we pass, our search begins. Three blocks later we see another woman step out of a store, loaf of bread in her hand. My eyes widen as a smile emerges on my face. As we enter the bakery the realization that I lack knowledge of the French language hits me. “How do you say I want a loaf of bread, or even just bread in French?” I hopefully ask my friend. Having no response and being more than slightly intimidated, I contemplate my options, deciding I have no choice but to simply point out my request. As I approach the counter I see the sign, baguette 0,80 €. Of course it´s just called a baguette; I had to over think that one. Finally, I exit the store, full baguette in hand. I begin to devour it as if I had been without food for an entire week. We continue walking while eating, seeing as it appeared socially acceptable here. Two and a half hours later, with no bread left and frozen toes, we reach the entrance of our hostel.

The slightly creepy, but relatively nice, English speaking man behind the desk hands us the key to our room. I grasp hold of its keychain and ambivalently begin my journey into our first hostel. The windy halls are dark, with nothing but faded white paint on the walls. 14. We reached our room. I’m not sure what I was expecting but this experience was sure to be more similar to environmental camp than anything else. The room consists of two sets of bunk beds, a makeshift unenclosed closet, and a sink. After becoming slightly adjusted to my surroundings, I begin to change for my first night in Paris.

Our first stop: The Latin Quarter

The streets are slightly narrow, full of people entering and exiting the various restaurants on both sides of the street. There is every type of restaurant from Italian to Greek and Crepes to french fries to accommodate everyone’s hunger needs. We stop at an Italian restaurant for pizza and pasta, then for nutella and banana crepes, which are to die for. The sweetness of the chocolate blends perfectly with the ripe banana and soft crepe. Needless to say, I had more than one throughout my stay in Paris.

Next, we made the journey, via metro, to see the Eiffel Tower at night. As I turn the corner for the first time, I am blown away by its beauty, breathtaking. My body stops mid motion to allow my eyes to capture the sight. I can’t believe I am in Paris, looking at the Eiffel Tower. The pictures I have seen of this structure have been absolutely gorgeous, but from this spot, in this moment, they don’t do it justice. I could sit here for hours admiring one of my top five favorite sights in the World.

The following day we walk the entire city, along the water, through the streets, past the Louvre, and back to the Eiffel Tower to see it sparkle in the sun’s light and climb to the top to see the incredible view of the city.

At night we decide to return to the Louvre to capture the beauty of the glass pyramid. Playing around with the settings on my new camera, we try black and white and sport mode. This is what came about:

According to the Louvre’s website, the museum will open at 9am this morning. In order to reach our bus, which leaves at 10:15 am and is on the other side of the city, we must exit the Louvre by 10 of to head for the metro. Arriving early, we are the 13^th and 14^th people in line, sandwiched between a group of Asian tourists speaking another language we failed to interpret. 9:05 am: Really, you have to be running late today; we’re on a schedule here. 9:15 am: I’m guessing the time was wrong. A line begins to stretch around the pyramid and out of sight as tourists eagerly wait for entrance into the museum. 9:30 am: The museum employees begin to open the doors. I look towards by friend and say, “I guess we really will be seeing the Louvre in 20 minutes.” We make a game plan, head straight for the Mona Lisa. We enter the revolving doors and are spit out into a speed walk, heading for the ticket counter and then towards the room where the Mona Lisa is held. The hallways are close to empty, except for scattered security guards, and the walls are filled with pieces of art whose beauty we are passing by with ease. We reach the masterpiece, and although small, as we were told, it is definitely a sight to see. Her eyes moved with me, looking perfectly into my camera for every picture. We capture its beauty on film and take in the sight of the painting. Looking at the time, we have to go, our weekend in Paris has come to an end as we begin to run for the metro.

Location: Paris, France

Grocery shopping in Spain is as if every fresh food market was a Costco. It seems all food here comes in bulk. One does not simply buy a small package of chicken for dinner tonight; instead you buy enough chicken to feed the entire Patriot’s football team. The other day, after my se�ora returned home from the market she called me into the kitchen. She gently lifted the top off one of two identical, larger than a thick science textbook size, boxes to revile rows of reddish-orange, fresh from the water, head and body still intact, seafood. Gamba! She exclaimed, as if I knew what that meant. I nodded my head, racking my brain for any information I could scrounge on this creature. Sometimes I wish I had google in my brain, then wherever I was, I could always have my questions answered. Whatever it was, I knew I would discover this creature’s taste at my next meal.

            She called me to the table, as always, by knocking on my bedroom door. As I took my pre-assigned seat she set a full plate in front of me. Shrimp! At times like these I have to try not to burst into laughter from my lack of worldly knowledge. I don’t know about you guys, but up until the other day I could not have even begun to tell you what a shrimp looked like before it had been commercially processed, deveined, and precooked for its consumers.

            Due to the large amount of this creature acquired, we have had shrimp for lunch and dinner for the past three days. Today’s lunch was no different. However this time it was as if I was a medical student in the middle of a practicum exam. Using only an average knife and fork my task was to attempt to devein already cooked shrimp disguised throughout a pasta dish. Only in my scenario I had to complete the task in the brief moments when my se�ora was not looking my way, as to not offend her cooking.

            Even after consuming the huge bowl of pasta and shrimp, three pieces of bread, and two oranges, my se�ora proceeded to say, “You didn’t eat very much.” Dumbfounded as to how she could possible believe that, I still responded with, “Oh, well I wasn’t very hungry today.” “No, you don’t eat very much in general.” She counters. Slightly taken aback by her comment, I cannot even fathom the amount of food she thinks I should be eating. Portions here are twice the size of those in the US and include more than one round of food. Everyday she peels me four oranges for dessert after the three homemade meals she provides. One of my favorite meals she makes is that of fried fish. The first time she made it, I had at least ten pieces of the fish amongst other side dishes. That same night she looked at me puzzled, again saying, “You didn’t eat very much.” At this juncture I feel as if she expects me to consume the same size meals my 6’2″ older brother demolished while in college training for his lacrosse team. At first my theory was that she was trying to “fatten me up” as if it was some sort of stereotype I needed to fall under. Then after the comments she outwardly makes about individuals carrying extra weight, my theory was busted faster than the television show Mythbusters could have solved.  Now my questions still linger above the dinner table as she takes a seat with a portion half of the size of the mound staring back at me.

Location: Sevilla, Spain

            My friend and I look towards each other unsure; waiting to see if the other has a plan. We are circling the bottom floor of a mall, which, according to google maps, houses a movie theater. Finally we see a sign and proceed up the steps where a concession stand waits. Though obviously American, and confused to say the least, everyone around us simple stared as we searched for the ticket counter. The young woman at the concession stand simply watched, as if we were the plot of a suspense movie, her eyes following, waiting for the drama to start. Ignoring our audience, we finally see the writing “tickets” on the top of a hut. The sign of the hut reads, “Tequila Bar”. We decide it is our best option and descend the stairs we had recently climbed. A-ha!! Movie times, we were in the right place. After collecting the exact change we would need from our purses we approached the counter. In Spanish we kindly asked for tickets to J. Edgar and paid. As the early twenty-year-old male went to hand us our recently printed tickets he says, in Spanish, “you know the movie is in Spanish right?” Thank you captain obvious I do know what country I am in. After politely assuring him we were well aware of the movie’s language we made our way to our theater. Standing at the back of the dark theater, using the light from my cell phone we searched our tickets for a seat position, having vaguely remembered being told we had seat assignments. We found our seats as the movie was about to begin. The opening scene is that of a landscape and a voice begins to narrate. Not more than 12 seconds pass before my friend and I look towards each other again, burst out laughing, and say, “We should have picked a different movie”. I couldn’t tell you much of what was said in that movie, but I did comprehend more than everyone we encountered thought we would.

Living in a world where you are learning the language is like being a little kid again. You can sense when people are happy, sad, or angry but you just don’t understand why. You will never be punished or scolded for saying something incorrect or offensive or impolite because they give you a pass for lacking the knowledge to understand the words true meanings. There is no need to have personal conversations in a separate room; instead, words are strung together like clothes on a clothesline, being spoken as if it were a competition of speed as to discourage you from picking out the few words of which you understand. I have flashbacks from when I was a child and my parents would spell the “bad words” that my older brothers proved to understand by falling into laughter. And there I was, sitting at the dinner table; left in the dark, praying for the day I could finally spell.

            That’s the thing with being visually different than the population of which you are surrounded. Here, people seem to expect us “Americans” to stand out and embarrass ourselves with frequency for their amusement. Yesterday, I stood in the dressing room of a department store, fixated on the reflection of the bright blue pants I was trying on. It was not the fit that I was contemplating; instead, it was if the “white pant” rule applied to other colors. It is a well-known “rule” that one must only wear white pants between Memorial Day and Labor Day. But is there a rule for bright blue pants, or the Santa Clause red pants neatly folded in my closet, patiently waiting for their unveiling? After polling my friend close by, we didn’t have an answer.

            Tuesday morning I decided to make my own rule! I pulled on my red pants, confidently walked out the apartment door, and strutted down the sidewalk of a main road as if I was walking the runway in Paris. It was complete with onlookers questioning my choice with their eyes as I passed, capturing the image to tell to their friends when they arrived at work.

            After appearing so obviously out of place, I find it humorous when Spaniards attempt to put us at ease with the few English words they know. Last weekend I was taking a tour of a cathedral with a group of students from my program. Our guide spoke some English but was instructed to only lecture to us in Spanish. However, every time we had stopped and she wanted us to relocate she would say, “one, two, three, vamanos(let’s go)”! She did this at least thirteen times throughout our half our tour and every single time it was just as funny as the first.

            The way other people view the World is very interesting to me. I am here, in Spain, because of a desire to learn. Though I never really enjoyed the structure of the schools I attended, it was this drive for knowledge that made be love learning. No point is enough for me, I am always going to want more out of life and to push myself and challenge my capacity to learn more. I cannot even fathom the idea that I may, one day, not want to learn anything new, but then again I’m not seventy-one years old.

            The other day a television program relayed the highlights from a recent soccer game in Spain. As my Se�ora walked to the tabled she said, “I don’t like to watch this game, I don’t understand it!” Having played for many years I would have been more than happy to explain the rules to her so I asked, “Do you want to understand it?” She threw her arms up as if it was the most absurd question I could have asked and responded, “I don’t want to learn anything else. I am at a point in life where I don’t want to learn anymore, with learning something else, just comes more work.”

            This is not the only interesting conversation encountered at the dinner table. Lunch today was interesting, to say the least. I ate potato and meat soup with my Se�ora and her grown son. Our conversation began with the topic of snow normally acquired by my home State of New Hampshire and managed to somehow segway into politics, gay rights, and abortion laws, with my Se�ora having strong opinions about all three. I tried to speak as much with my facial expressions as possible, but it was an uncoordinated combination of nodding in my understanding of the Spanish she was speaking and a sort of compassion for the topics she was discussing.  Her son realized I didn’t comprehend some of what she was saying so he would slowly provide background information to me as my Se�ora every so often would interject when he approached her most important points. My fun fact of the day, however, is that in Spain a democrat is equal to a republican in the United States, and vice versa.

            One of the main problems with trying to have in depth conversations when not fluent in a second language is that you can never let your personality shine. Today I realized that I couldn’t tell or understand a single joke because my understanding of the language is not in depth enough to do so. By not being able to have simple encounters of laughter or emotion in my words, it takes away from letting others know the person I really am. Instead, I rely solely on my actions to prove my worth to the people that were strangers mere weeks ago. 

Location: Sevilla, Spain

           Francisca is my third grandmother, mi abuela. She is a sweet and caring woman who is an excellent cook and motherly enough to sincerely care about my well-being. If I had a plastic Barney placemat in front of me it would seem, at times, as if I was four again. Complete with a peeled and sliced orange waiting for me every afternoon and a packed lunch that I can’t wait to open when I arrive at school. She is someone who I would love the opportunity to listen to her tell her life story and learn from the knowledge she has acquired.

One thing I have learned is that the simplest things can make someone happy, especially grandmothers. As I entered the apartment after returning home from class this afternoon, mi abuela was only a few feet away, asking me about my day. After covering various topics she began to tell me about this tea her mother used to make her as a child, t� a la Americana. Then she looked me in the eyes and asked if I wanted to have tea with her. How could I say no to that? So we sat at the table, drinking our tea, watching television and chatting for an hour. The expression on her face during this time was worth more than anything else I could have accomplished that hour.

My 30% off army colored tan boots lose traction on the 100 year-old, one-person wide stairs below me. My right leg buckles as the propulsion from my movement sends the rest of my body down the remaining stairs. It was as if I was a novice skier who hit a patch of ice on a double black diamond trail. I would have had a “yard sale” to go with it, if I wasn’t able to hold on to the deliciously, handcrafted sandwich I had just unwrapped from my lunch. Sandwiched between my two friends at the time of the fall, they stopped and starred at my discombobulated body, wanting to laugh but needing to make sure I wasn’t hurt first. I broke the ice and burst out laughing while still sprawled out on the stairs. The others followed. I didn’t return to my feet until my stomach ached from laughing so hard and I noticed a line forming at the bottom of the stairs.  

People walk SO slow here, and without a care in the World. They are on “Spanish time”, the opposite of Americans. Here, if you’re on time you’re early. Yesterday my friend and I decided we would attempt to “fit in”, instead of calling attention to ourselves by power walking through the streets. It took all my effort to walk that slowly, and it’s not like I have long legs. The majority of the people here even wait for the green “walk” signal to appear, instead of running between cars like they do in New York City.

The frigid water falls upon my bare skin like the first frost of the year. It paralyzes my muscles as my body falls into a defensive fetal position. After regaining some strength I reach toward the handle, exposing my goosebump ridden chest to the falling water, and cut the water source. The nightmare of a shower taken in a hut during my sixth grade environmental camp did not even compare to the chill of the shower I was about to resume. The water was not cold, it was one degree away from being ice. Pointing the showerhead in the opposite direction of where I am standing, I resume the flow of water. I wash my hair and body hunched over as if I am using a waterfall as my water source. I was in and out faster than the time my boyfriend arrived to my house early to meet my parents for the very first time. I had just begun to shampoo my hair as I heard the doorbell ring. You can imagine how quickly I threw up my soaking wet, not thoroughly rinsed hair, dressed in the first clothes in sight, and sprinted, jumping down the final steps of the staircase, to “save him” from the awkwardness.

            Tonight during dinner we watched a Spanish version of Saturday Night Live. I was mesmerized the entire meal attempting to determine if it was funnier when you understand the jokes or when attempting to put together the pieces as to why these people are wearing these outfits and what the possible topic of this skit may be.  One skit was as if too young brothers had raided their father’s closet and decided to put on a show for their mother; A show where no matter what they say it is hilarious because they are just that adorable. 

Below are some pictures from Sevilla!

Location: Sevilla, Spain

You must always be a member of the clean plate club here. This is a harder task than it may first appear, although my se�ora’s cooking is to-die-for delicious. Food is forced upon you and piled atop your plate like a volcano erupting an entire other meal atop the one already served. Don’t let the breakfast of toast with peach jam and hot chocolate mislead what is to come later in the day. Lunch is the largest meal of the day and consists of salad, soup, bread, homemade French fries or potato chips, a pasta dish or a protein or two, and it always ends with a perfectly ripe, peeled orange. Dinner is smaller and served much later than in the States, normally around 9:30 pm. Most often eggs, which are never served for breakfast, are served for dinner. Tonight we had a vegetable medley that was so sweet it could have been the dessert at a five star restaurant and fried fish that would have put to shame the most authentic fish and chips.

A different World it is when you live in another country. There are different rules, different customs, and very different ways of living. The soft denim of the new American Eagle jeans I am wearing lay atop a bed shorter than my 6’2″ older brother, and covered in blankets more worn with history than my great grandmother’s family stories. My room fits a twin bed, two mismatched dressers and a small desk meant for a non-electric sewing machine and is barely larger than my parent’s walk-in closet at home. All the floors in the apartment are covered in discolored shades of tan tiles and the green-sherbet colored walls of “my space” house a single picture of a BMW. However, not the same BMW my father drove me to the airport in only a few days ago. Instead, it is of a, fittingly, green 1929 soft-topped car too old for me to recognize.

The lack of technology here is somewhat soothing and provides fewer distractions. It allows me to see what life was like before everyone had a cell phone and I must learn how to navigate a city without google maps and simply select a time and place to meet with friends.  However, one thing never changes. Every meal is consumed in front of the television. Normally the news or political debates with fast talking business people covering the screen. It is the captions that inform me of the happenings of the rest of the World. The other night President Obama appeared on the news and my se�ora asked my opinion on him. Talking politics with strangers is dangerous and hard enough in your first language, asking me to do so in a second language, forget about it. I’m sorry but I didn’t have a “political” themed vocabulary list in high school to help me out.

My life is a game of charades where I am a street performer who can only use their extremities in order to communicate with my audience. Panic strikes when the climax of a simple sentence transforms into a horror movie where the epiphany of the next word could be lurking behind any door. And at times, the epiphany is never realized. Last night the se�or in my house ask me what my father does for a living. The word for lawyer had escaped me faster than the A I earned on my occupation vocabulary quiz in high school. My life then became a game of Taboo, me against the entirety of the household. “A person who helps criminals”, I finally mustered. Though inaccurately describing my father’s profession, they were able to correctly guess the word for which I was searching. By the end of my stay I hope to be proficient enough in Taboo to greatly increase my winning percentage and to not have to use charades in order to express myself. 

Location: Sevilla, Spain