Find the Color

What color typically comes to mind when you think of Ireland? Green?

Well, you wouldn't be wrong. From the sea green of the foamy waves crashing into the coast to the kelly green of the miles and miles of rolling hills to the emerald green of the Irish flag whipping in the wind, I felt as if I were awash in a sea of green.

But, let me tell you another color that seemed to dominate the landscape in Ireland: grey. Between the slate grey of the endless clouds above to the misty grey of the sidewalk down below, it might've been a bit difficult--in any other place--to not let my mood turn grey as well.

Luckily, I was in a place that is, in fact, brimming with color: I just had to look for it.

And I found it, alright.

I found it around the unexpected street corner in an abstract mural splashed with sunshiney yellows and sapphire blues, splotched with baby pinks and fiery oranges, splattered with ruby reds and forest greens.

I found it as I hunched my shoulders over my ever-tattering map in a friendly pat on the shoulder and a gentle "Can I help you find something?" coming from the voice of a complete stranger.

I found it when I let down my umbrella--realizing it was useless--in the magenta, violet, scarlet, and navy doors, leading into otherwise drab, brown buildings.

I found it as I shed my sopping wet coat in a charming corner cafe, infused with aromas of coffee, chocolate-y pastries, and warm shepard's pie.

I found it just when the dreary rain was getting to me in a patch of cheery petunias situated in the courtyard of St. Patrick's cathedral. Their vibrant faces pointed to the sky, they were engrossed in the rain's pitter-patter symphony, hanging on to the ping-ping of every last drop.

I found it in the warm embrace and contagious smile of my curly-haired friend who I hadn't seen in almost a year, but who nevertheless took me under her wing to show me the true Dublin.


I found it in the basement of a pub in the foot-stomping, knee-slapping, head-bobbing  rhythm coming from the combination of the Irish band's reedy flute and gravelly, husky voices, rounded out by the mellow, velvet-y acoustic guitar.

I found it the next day at the Cliffs of Moher in the soft blue sky streaked with a few gentle brush strokes of pinkish-white clouds--a gentle background for the jagged green cliffs that jutted into the skyline.

I found it--when I could barely keep my balance--in the ripping and roaring wind at the Cliffs that brought with it, clusters of pearl-white foam from the turbulent turqoise Atlantic below.

Depiste the rain, despite the cold, despite the grey, I found that color.

Now, it's your turn.

Going Home: Part 2

It took me by surprise how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of a place I hadn’t set foot in for almost 2 years.

Walking back from the bus station in the pre-dawn 5 AM hour with my friend—who so graciously sacrificed his sleep to ensure that I had someone waiting for me—I felt like I hadn’t missed a beat.

While we chatted—a bit drowsily—about past memories and experiences, it was so hard to believe that it had been almost two years.

My heart almost immediately fell right into rhythm with the living pulse of the city.
The same rhythm that coursed through my veins as we trekked our way—with ragged breath, I might add—up the same Castillo de Santa Barbara that I used to run up several times a week.

The same rhythm that I could feel reverberating through the speakers at the discotecas* in the oh-so-familiar barrio.

And the same rhythm that I stepped in tune with as I navigated the same streets back to my host family’s house.

Zigzagging through the familiar streets, I was inundated with so many thoughts: What if I forget how to speak Spanish? What if I get lost trying to remember where the piso* is? What if it’s not the same as before? What if we run out of things to talk about? What if? What if? What if?

Still drowning in so many thoughts, I was so distracted that I hit the wrong apartment buzzer. Great start, right?

Heart pounding in my ears, I slowly made my way up the dim stairway to piso 1C; I still couldn’t believe that this was happening. This was real—not a dream. Real.

And it was then, when my feet finally hit the top stair and my host mom came bursting through the hallway, tears in her eyes, that the reality of it all hit me for real this time. I was home.

As we passed the next four hours chatting and laughing and reminiscing and crying and smiling, I couldn’t help but think: how lucky am I that I have more than one place to call my home, that my heart belongs to more than one place?

But you see, that’s part of the problem: Everywhere I go, I leave a little piece of my heart—in some places, just a tiny fragment is left, but in others, a whole chunk is ripped out, sometimes leaving imperfectly jagged edges.

And so, as the next day and a half flew by, I began to struggle with the fact that when I boarded that bus for the nearly 12 hour journey back to my new home, that once again, I would be forced to hand over yet another piece of me—only this time, the hole remaining was even more gaping than before.

How can someone feel full or content when pieces of her heart are divided up between so many different places?

Sounds a little disheartening, right? Well don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom, and here’s why:
I’ve got this theory: every place I go has a piece of me, but filling those vacant places are scraps of memories, bits of experiences, shreds of new places.

Sure, they don’t all fit together perfectly to fill all of the gaps, but that’s life right?

I do know that now, with so many places etched into my heart, my being is so much more enriched than it ever was before—even before it had the gaps when it was ``technically” full.

And besides, while the empty spaces that have been torn away may bring about feelings of nostalgia, those vacant spots also remind me of how lucky I am to call so many places home.

Going "Home"

Go to any airport, bus or train station. Upon finally arriving at your destination—when your most likely swollen feet finally touch the ground—here’s what you’ll see:

Eager, scanning eyes of parents anxiously awaiting the arrival of their wanderlust-filled daughter.

Jittery hands and swinging arms—some gripping handcrafted “welcome” signs that still smell of pungent permanent marker, other poised to wrap their long, lost friend into a giant bear hug.

Feet shifting back and forth ready to break into a run—no, a sprint—upon the first sight of their other half.

Lips parted, ready to call out at the first sight of that familiar highlighted ponytail or bright red purse.

Can you picture it? Okay, now that you’ve got all that, keep walking—past the signs, past the clusters of waiting people, past the gate marked ``arrivals.”

At this point, you may be in full focus mode, zoning in on the signs marked taxis, baggage claim, metro station. But, if you are like me, you might pause for just a minute too long or glance back at the onslaught of reunions already in progress and you’ll be inundated by a wave of confusing emotions:
nostalgia, envy, anxiety.

And then, if you’re really like me, you’ll chide yourself: Why is it that I feel like this? I am about to embark on yet another adventure-of-a-lifetime. I shouldn’t be the one to envy others right now.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel—I live to travel—but despite what my Facebook and Instagram feeds might suggest, travel isn’t always sunshine and roses.

Between the getting lost, missing baggage, culture shock, and delays, sometimes travel can make you feel just a teensy bit lonely and overwhelmed.

But don’t worry, soon enough, you’ll be one of the lucky ones who has arrived at a place that you can call home. For me, this was my trip to Alicante.

I had people waiting for me. Gone were the nerves, the jealously, the homesick pit in my stomach. I was going home.

Don't just See the Sea

Don't just see the sea. Smell it. Taste it. Hear it. Touch it. Sense it. Be it.

More often than I would care to admit, a weekend trip in Europe warps into a hectic, whirlwind tour of any given city—and maybe not in the best way.

It becomes a checklist of sorts: pay 7€ to visit the top of this cathedral, snap a picture and on to the next; pay 10€ to scurry through this museum—not once stopping to contemplate the giant splotchy paintings that stand before you—snap a picture and on to the next; bury your nose in the map until you find this-or-that "Trip Advisor recommended" lookout point, snap a picture and on to the next.

Well, not this time. This city—San Sebastián—was going to be different, and so I repeat: Don't just see the sea. Smell it. Taste it. Hear it. Touch it. Sense it. Be it.

As you stroll along the beach:

Let the frothy bubbles tickle your fingertips as they pop and the salty spray spritz your smile.

Feel the gritty sand crumble beneath your boots and later, the cobbly-wobbly, ankle-breaking bricks dig into the soles of your feet.

Let the whirling wind whip your hair and the cool rain drops plop down your cheeks.

Feel the tumultuous roar of the roiling, broiling waves and the briny, saline mist lap at your face.

As you hike to the top of Monte Urgull, the mountainous hill that overlooks the city:

Feel your calves tighten as you strain up the hill and the wall's cool, calloused stone beneath your palms.

Let the humid fragrance of green imbibe your nostrils and the knobby, knarly trees creak and groan as the wind—gaining ferocity—gusts through.

Feel your eyes prick with water as you squint to make out the rounded backs of the mountains etched into the background.

Feel your own weight surge into your toes as you oh-so-carefully scoot your way down the slippery pathway. 

And when you've finally made it down the mountain:

Feel your ears perk up as you attempt to decipher the lilting conversations swirling all around you—most muted by the collective pitter-patter of raindrops on umbrellas.

Let your hands run over the smooth mahogony bar as you scrutinize the endless piles of pintxos* and your lips pucker at the first taste of sweet sangria.

Feel the gooey cheese of the croquette swarm your taste palette and the melodious jingle-jangle of the local parade fill your eardrums.

Feel the squishy, squashy sensation between your pruny toes and later, the beauty that is a clean pair of toasty warm socks.

Let the fizzy wine and coke flush your face and make your eyes tingle.

Feel the reverberating pulse of the music inside the discoteca and later, the liberating sensation of cool air smacking you in the face.

And when you're all down with that, take another moment to drink it in, take it in. Let it sink in.

Because you're not just here to see the sea. You're here to smell it. Taste it. Hear it. Touch it. Sense it. Be it.






*pintxos: a small, snack that is typically eaten in bars in parts of northern Spain, particularly, Basque country

Tears upon arrival; Tears upon departure

Photo Credit: Nate Long

Ready to go, not to leave--if I had to sum up my feelings right now with a "six word story", that would be it.

I am so excited to finally see my loved ones, but I can't imagine saying goodbye to this place that I have learned to love and called home for the past five months.

My heart flutters when I think about seeing my family for the first time in the Cleveland airport, but sinks when I think about saying goodbye to my familia española in the Alicante airport.

I have dreamed about all the familiar things that I've missed from home, but can't help but remember all of my experiences this semester that have been dreams come true.

I never could have imagined the experiences that awaited me as I sat in the Cleveland airport on January 8, people watching as I tried to distract myself from how nervous I was.

 And now, after making many lifelong friends, traveling to seven different countries within Europe, exploring countless cities and little pueblos within Spain, and becoming a part of a new family, I feel that I have truly "aprovechar"'d la vida. 

That isn't to say that there weren't difficult times as well.

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be able to hear and speak English. But then I remember the time when I was able to give directions in Spanish to a beach-going couple who was lost. (No small feat for a directionally challenged individual like myself).

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to run with my teammates through the streets of good ole' Springfield, Ohio. But then I remember the euphoric feeling that washed over me the first time a friend and I ran up the castillo de Santa Bárbara without stopping.

There was a time when I craved normalcy, familiarity. But then I remember the times when I satisfied my craving for adventure, facing my fears of heights and relentless gaviotas  to climb the ginormous rock in Calpe (thanks to the patience and encouragement of a few friends).


There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to chat about mundane things over Panera with my friends from home. But then I remember the six a.m. nights (mornings) dancing with new friends, the life chats sitting in front of the tranquil Mediterranean, and the afternoons doubled over in laughter attempting to play fútbol. 

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to find myself wrapped in my mom's warm hug, breathing in her scent that I had come to know so well over the past 20 years. But then I remember how excited my madre española was the first time I made tortilla de patata and I successfully completed the dar la vuelta part.

And so, looking back on my semester, I know that my life will never be the same.

 I am now orange, to use the metaphor of one of my professors (and no, not just because of all the sun that I have gotten). Upon arrival, I was yellow (the 'color' of the U.S.) a little bit lost in a world of red (the 'color' of Spain). Although I have still maintained my American identity, poco a poco, I have taken on a bit more red, getting used to eating cena at 9 p.m., not getting annoyed when my professor regularly showed up to class 20 minutes late, taking more time to disfrutar la vida.

Little by little, I changed from the color of honey to marmalade and finally to the vibrant orange of a juicy clementine.

And that is why, looking back,  I can't help but smile at all of the memories, but I also can't help but cry a little at the fact that it is almost all over.



*Familia española: Spanish family
*pueblos: towns
*Castillo de Santa Bárbara: Castle of Saint Barbara
*gaviotas: seagulls
*aprovechar"'d la vida: To take advantage of life
*fútbol: soccer
*tortilla de patata: a typical (yummy!) dish made of potatoes and eggs 
*dar la vuelta: to turn over (to make the tortilla de patata, you have to flip the entire tortilla so that the other side can fully cook)
*poco a poco: little by little 
*cena: dinner
*disfrutar la vida: to enjoy life 

Hundreds of Lives; Hundreds of Stories



Photo Credit: Nate Long

My favorite sport in Madrid, home of the Real Madrid fútbol team? People watching. And the best part? It's free. Gratis.  

So just plop down on the brick surface in the center of the Puerta del Sol or pop a squat on the ledge that surrounds the Templo de Debod and take a look around at the wonderfully eccentric people of Madrid:

You will see five muscular men dancing without music, somehow completely in sync with one another, their bodies convulsing to a beat that only they can hear. What's their story?

You will see a group of four older ladies, sporting heavy jackets despite the balmy late-February air. They clutch one another's arms along with their handbags as they gossip and giggle like a gaggle of giddy school girls. What's their story?

You will see a flock of gawking tourists surrounding the men moving to that mysterious rhythm; all of them sport camera bags, sunglasses and the ever-so sensible tennis shoes. What's their story?

You will see weathered old women and lurking in the sombra of the group, clanging cups of tinkling change. Seeking out the most empathetic-looking of the group? Hoping for someone to temporarily forget about her half-open satchel? What's their story?

Photo Credit: Nate Long

You will see three older gentlemen; each bears a different hat and a different musical instrument. Together, the trio made up by an accordion, a bass and a saxophone, add some spring in the steps of people passing by. What's their story?

You will see two men dressed in buttercup-yellow Egyptian attire, mysteriously levitating off the ground, a ragged Winnie-the-Pooh with a scratched eyeball and tattered red shirt to boot. What's their story?

You will see Spanish youth, some standing on the ledge staring at one another as if nothing else in the world matters. Others attempt to master the art of slack-lining. Some can barely keep their balance as they tilt precariously from side to side while their arms flair; others, much more graceful, can jump and flip and balance on one foot without batting an eye. What's their story?




Photo Credit: Nate Long

You will see a young girl with blonde ringlets, a book in her lap. A book for school? For pleasure? Palm to her cheek, she is completely lost in the world of the story that sits in her lap. What's her story?

Hundreds of people. Hundreds of stories.

So take some time from the whirlwind tour of Madrid, give your aching feet a rest, sit down, and enjoy one of my new favorite pastimes.

*fútbol: soccer
                                                                                       *gratis: free
                                                                                       *sombra: shadow

Inside a Screensaver

We are ants. No, smaller than ants. Tiny insignificant specks posing for the perfect profile picture, munching on bocadillos courtesy of our lovely Spanish host madres, and staring fixedly at the grand majesty that stands proudly, valiantly, before us.





Her cara, mostly rocky; her cheeks, sprinkled with tints of rosy blush; her hair, lush and green pine trees draped along her face; her body, strong and without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Her legs stretch impossibly and inconceivably. She cradles to her chest, as a mother would a child, her most precious jewel: a deeply turquoise lake, sparkling in the afternoon light. And she knows that right behind her is her companion, el sol, reassuring her with his warm touch on her shoulder.

 Sitting in the shadow of such a beauty, I had never in my life felt so small. So insignificant. So awe-inspired.

I had stared at this screensaver for months through my scratched computer screen and now, I am in it. Living, breathing, existing inside a screensaver.








*Bocadillo: a type of sandwhich
*Madre: mother
*Cara: face
*El sol: the sun