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

El Mercado: Fun Grocery Shopping?

I never thought grocery shopping could be described as "fun."

...However, with the Saturday morning chorus of cheery "hola buenas," whirring meat cutters and the tinkling of exchanging coins ringing through the Central Market of Valencia, how could it not be?

Wandering down the countless rows of every fresh foodstuff imaginable, flaky chocolate croissant in hand, I was enthralled by how much there was to see; to hear; to smell; to taste.

Passing by each stand is like passing through completely separate bubbles; for a split second, the sweet smell of strawberries intermingled with the raw smell of fish until bam! I was enveloped in the more odorous fish-y realm, starting straight into the bulging eyes of the grey, scaly monstrosity with a gaping mouth. Finally, I entered the more pleasing realm of the dried fruit stand--a mouth-watering aroma of dried kiwi, pineapple and oranges infusing my nostrils.

But then, when stepping back to look at the bigger picture, each stand somehow seemed to fit in the overall grand scheme of the market; each stand, with its distinct sights, sounds, smells and tastes, just made up one cog of the great Valencian Mercado; each stand represented one piece of the harmony in the melodious choir.

And that, my friend, is how grocery shopping can be fun.

No Pasa Nada: My New Favorite Phrase

No pasa nada. Literal translation: nothing happened.

If I had a euro for every time that I hear this saying during a typical day, I would have enough euros to buy a gooping-hot, chocolate-y Napolatina every morning for the rest of my life. Enough euros to ride the tram to and from La Universidad two times a day. Enough euros to take advantage of all the rebajas (sales) that take place at the end of January.

To give a little context, let me spell out for you all that this wonderful phrase encompasses:

If you accidentally spill your drink at dinner, no pasa nada. If you come home at six in the morning and accidentally hit the doorbell instead of the hallway light, no pasa nada. If you get lost on a morning run and miss your class, no pasa nada.

(Yes, these are all things that I have done. Like I've said before, I'm still learning.)

But really, I think the Spanish are on to something here with this oh-so-casual expression. Reflecting the calmer and more relaxed Spanish culture, this colloquial phrase is like a breath of fresh air, in lieu of  the harried, frantic air that most Americans seem to breath. Everything is just a little bit slower. And if something doesn't go according to plan, that is OK. It's not the end of the world (despite what many Americans might think).

For instance, instead of grabbing a venti iced-coffee and going (for that imperative morning caffeine boost), with palm pilot and blue tooth earpiece in tow, Spaniards sit down and chat over coffee, enjoying their drink and one another's company.

 They don't do things for the "likes" they can get; they do things because they like to. They don't fill up every single minute of their schedules because it "looks good"; they sprinkle their schedules with things that will make them feel good.

If you will, the Spaniards take a few minutes to actually smell the roses, instead of just quickly snapping a photo of said roses to later post on Instagram.

In other words, this culture embodies another favorite phrase of mine: Carpe Diem--Seize the Day.

Una Mezcla: A Mix

Everything is jumbled together. The cultures, the traditions, my sense of direction (not that I was ever that good with directions anyway). But the most jumbled by far is the language.

Words--of two very different languages--pop into every crevice of my brain, day and night. Let me tell you, sometimes it's just a mess.

English words accidentally spill from my mouth before I can stop them, leaving my host family to stare at me blankly. Other times, my fingers rapidly spell out Spanish palabras on the smooth keyboard of my phone, and by the time I realize that the recipient doesn't speak Spanish, the blue line indicating a sent message has already zoomed across the screen.

My thoughts seem to forever lie in limbo between the two lenguas; two words in English, the next three in Spanish. A silent soliloquy in Spanish, quickly chopped up by abrupt English exclamations when I stub my toe or am caught off guard by the ice-cold morning shower water.

It's a bit frenzied; it's a bit chaotic; it's a bit messy; it's very loco. And I kind of love it.

Sometimes, I guess, you just have to step back and let the mess be; just accept the jumbled mess for what it is: bellísima.

They are artists...

Photo Credit: Alison Morrow

Try to remember the most violent tantrum of a two year old you have ever seen: brows furrowed in indignant concentration, hands thrusting through the air, feet stamping forcefully into the ground. Now multiply it by a hundred and you might have a fraction of the energy exhibited by the flamenco dancers.

But no, the dancers aren't two year-olds throwing fits. They are artists.

Their feet moving so fast that you can barely distinguish between taps; the crimson skirts, sporting layers upon layers of fabric, swishing and whipping every which way; their feet slamming into the ground with such unbelievable force--I'll tell you what: those are some high heels in which I would never want to be on the wrong end. My goodness.

I'm still mesmerized by the seemingly contradictory movements of their bodies. While their lower halves were in a frenzy, feet and legs moving so rapidly that if you blink, you will miss a stomp, their upper halves took on smoother movements, hips swinging and swaying to the singer's raspy chants, hands revolving in the most suave of moments. All interrupted by rapid finger snaps and quick clicks of the castanets.

And the sound; I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body. Almost everything staccato. Clicks. Clacks. Rattles. Taps. Quick. Snaps. Short. Raps.

The drums: heavy thuds. The castanets: sharp clicks. The claps: quick raps. The snaps: rapid clacks. The symbol: a coppery tin-tin. All staccato.

All staccato except for the elongated chants, the singers oscillating up and down the musical scale with their throaty voices. Wrapping around every ear in the flamenco restaurant, the voices provided the ear a relief from the short raps, taps, rattles and clacks.

Needless to say, I was enthralled. But above all, I still can't forget the sound. ...

....Days later and I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body.

Let it Take your Breath Away

Have you ever seen something so stunningly beautiful that it literally takes your breath away? I have: the view from El Castillo de Santa Bárbara.

Just close your eyes and imagine this: straight down below you glittering in the fading sunshine is the Mediterranean, an impossibly blue-green sea, not a speck of muddy-brown anywhere. The waves break a bit at the shoreline, but beyond that, smooth. Smooth as glass, el mar stretches into an endless pale blue sky, delicately painted with the typical evening streaks: the palest of blues, the softest of yellows, the most muted orange.

Now turn, a little to your left and, careful not to look directly into it, take in the setting sun. His final rays of the day bathe the quaint casas below in a comfortable orange glow.

Now, a bit dazed from gazing at the setting ball of fire, you let your eyes follow the snow-white gulls, dancing in the last rays of light; they are so at ease, soaring ballerinas, pirouetting through the evening air.

They drift to your left, unexpectedly, and beyond them, something else catches your eye, las montañas. Etched into the fading blue sky--looking like a five year-old's first creating on his etch-a-sketch--the mountains stand tall, surrounding the city, almost as if guarding its many little treasures and secrets.

Finally, you look straight down again, and this time, you see the twisting streets below. You see movement. Movement everywhere. The people, the cars, the birds, the tram, the waves--all are on the move. And yet, you can't hear a thing.

How strange. How tranquil. How magnificent.

You may feel a little shiver electrifying your body; that's ok...let it work its way down your spine, traversing its way through your arms and legs, your fingers and toes. 

So now, just rest your hands on the cool, stony wall, inhale the briny sea air--be sure to take it all in--but most of all, be prepared to let it take your breath away.

Siempre estoy aprendiendo: Always I am learning

A lie: The classroom is the only place where one can learn. Never in my life has this statement been more false because now, the world is my classroom. Alicante--la ciudad del sol, according to my host father--is my classroom, and like an eager student, the classroom nerd, perhaps, I have my pen in hand, notebook open and highlighters at the ready because siempre estoy aprendiendo--Always, I am learning.

So far, I have not only learned new vocabulary and verb tenses in the classroom, but I have learned how to navigate a strange city; how to ride a tram (and not get on the wrong line); how to hold a conversation in Spanish with my host familia; how to not be embarrassed about my [many] mistakes; how to ignore catcalls like the confident Spanish women; how to deal with being so far away from everything I know and love; how to recharge a tram pass and buy a Spanish movil; how to ask for help when I need it, pride aside; how to do things myself when I don't need help; how to make friends in a place where I don't know anyone; how to really enjoy the little things like the warm caress of the sun on my face; how to cope when there are many areas where wifi doesn't exist; how to deal having to depend on finicky networks when wifi does exist.

However, above all, I have learned how to live life; how to make my heart happy.

How is it possible that I have only been here for four days?! It's loco!

In any case, I can't wait to see what this beautiful classroom of Alicante has in store for me the next four months.

Un Pececito: A little fish

 

 A fish does not realize it is in water until someone takes it out of the water: our program director's analogy for cultural immersion.

I can't even begin to say how true this has already been for me; even something as simple as ordering a cup of coffee is a new concept--apparently you pay after you drink and it is cringe-worthy to walk down the street and drink coffee at the same time. (Spaniards sit down and drink coffee, using the time to relax and socialize.)

Anyway, to use the director's analogy, this little fish has never felt so out of the American water in her life, not even when I visited Paris in high school. Then, I only had to tread in the shallow end of the French water, as I only was there for four days; however, now I am diving head first into the deep end as I will be here in Spain for four months, so I might as well get used to the water.

I am excited to get used to the water, and go beyond the surface of what is different about the Spanish culture and figure out why it is so different.

Why do Spaniards eat la comida (lunch) and la cena (dinner) so late? Why is it inappropriate to wear gym clothes out in public? Why do they seem to have no idea what personal space is?

Right now, I honestly can't say that I know the answers to all, or any, of these questions nor am I completely comfortable or adjusted yet.

However, this pececito is planning to grasp ahold of every chance, every opportunity, every experience nueva that comes to me; I don't intend to let anything float by me in this big, strange sea they call Europa.

Hasta Luego, America

The butterflies in my stomach relentless, the rapid pulsing of my heart unwavering, the quivering in my hands unyielding: I can't help but second guess myself, even though I know. I know I can do this.

Having dreamed of this since my tongue first spoke Spanish, savoring every syllable, I know that I can do this. Having been restless since I caught the travel bug after my trip to Paris, I know I can do this. I have to, I want to, I need to.

And so, prepared as I can possibly be, yet not prepared at all, I wait to start my journey. Watching the polished businessmen yammering into their cells, I wait.  Smiling at the frazzled parents checking and double checking their boarding passes, all while chasing down two rosy-cheeked toddlers, I wait. Watching travelers pass by my gate, some in no hurry, mosying by with Starbucks in hand; others whizzing by, polished businessmen striding by so fast that if I blink, I only catch a flash of their navy blue tailored suits, I wait..

Through all the bustle, I wait, wondering; hoping; dreaming.

Blog about Blogging

Before this class, the thought of blogging had never really occurred to me. To be honest, I just thought the blogging world was meant for spoiled, angst-y teenagers who used blogging as a venting outlet, complaining about how life isn't fair, all the while sipping on their mocha lattes and typing on $2000 macs.

However, since this class, I have realized that blogging is so much more than that. It is a way to connect, a way to get relevant information, and (my favorite) a way to be creative.

A person who is all about the details in writing, I love the fact that blogs allow writers to fully express the scene so that many times, I feel like I am right there with the writer. I also love being able to read classmates' takes on current issues and hot topics, and being able to connect with the 'universal' undertone that is present in so many peoples' blogs.

Therefore, I think that blogging is a good component to this class; not only because of its relevancy, connectivity and creativity, but also because it is the way in which the world is moving: towards the age of ever-increasing technology.

Excuse me, Sir, Please Let me Walk in Peace

Photo of Cat Callers. Image taken from thefeministwire.com

"Mmm...baby, where you goin' with that hot lil' bod?"--This is what one man thought was OK to leer at me at three o' clock on a Tuesday afternoon, with three little kids in tow, I might add.

Lips smacking and eyes scanning every part of me--except for my face, of course--this man succeeded in making me feel extremely self-conscious and humiliated--two feelings that NO ONE should have to endure at any time, let alone while walking home from class in the middle of the afternoon.

After the humiliation had worn off, I become infuriated. What gives anyone the right to comment about my body, objectifying me and making me feel like less of a person? And furthermore, what is he teaching the three little boys that he had presumably just picked up from the bus stop? That is is OK to objectify women? That it is OK to humiliate women for your own self-gratification?

Some might say, well, what's the big deal? Its not like he touched you or anything. You just need to not be so sensitive and have thicker skin; others might say, well, what were you wearing? You were probably 'workin' it. 

Such thought-processes, such frames of mind: these are a problem. A Big One.

It is a problem that this wasn't the first time that something like this has happened to me. It is a problem that some people don't find this offensive behavior to be harassment and it is a problem that this type of thing seems to be becoming the norm, a problem that this type of behavior is "OK."

Yes, women have made tremendous strides in overcoming inequality and gaining equal rights, but shouldn't those rights include the right to walk down the street without being harassed?

Apparently, they don't.

Boots on the Beach

 Boots on the beach? Barefoot on the beach seems like a more likely combination, especially for anyone (like me) who only has the opportunity to enjoy the ocean one week out of the year.

And yet, this time at the ocean was different. I had traded bare feet for boots, a bikini for a blanket and sunglasses for a scarf. While it did feel a bit bizarre at first, I did feel like I was able to fully appreciate Mother Nature's beauty just a little bit more than when hordes of bikini-wearers and swim trunk-bearers infiltrate the beach.

Looking left, looking right, looking straight ahead, not a human soul, although the sea gulls were a different story. The whole atmosphere had taken on a different aura, transitioning from a place of socializing to a place of solitude.

And this was Long Island--Southampton to be exact. This was a place where all the celebs are supposed to lavishly love out their summers, shopping at Dolce and J. Crew to escape the "harsh" demands of the NYC summer life. A place where people swarm in the warm summer months.

But somehow the salty air tasted just a little bit sweeter; the unwavering breeze smelled a little bit fresher; and being alone on the beach didn't seem quite so lonely.

Beautifully Chaotic; Chaotically Beautiful

My senses were inundated. I couldn't seem to take it all in fast enough. The scene--the one at the Yellow Springs Street Fair--is one that will last in my memory bank for a very long time.

Indeed a sight for the eyes--muted grays and charcoals of drawings gave way to the blend of turquoise, royal purple and sea-foam green of crocheted berets, which bled into the crimson-y red and blood-orange of the delicate, handmade leaf jewlery.

A musical cacophony for the ears--the sweet tinkling of the tambourines melded into the melodious timbre of the street performer's husky voice and his harmonious acoustic guitar; all of which was somehow united with the deep thud thud of the drums that pulsated along with the heart.

A tingling sensation for the nose--powdery funnel cake mingled with caramelized kettle corn, which was fused with the fragrance of strawberry-scented candles and the warm aroma of fresh-baked bread.

And the people--some clad in long prairie skirts and flowery hair pieces, others donned dreadlocks and "Legalize It!" buttons, and still others sported muted bandanas and faded blue jeans.

At first glance, it all appeared to be a mess, but somehow it all fit together. Piece by Piece.

All at once it was beautifully chaotic and chaotically beautiful.

A Sad Sight

A young couple, still damp from the Boston evening's torrential downpour duck into a local tavern in Allston (a neighborhood in Boston). Cheeks rosy, eyes glinting, faces glowing from--enthrallment in one another's company? Exhilaration of having escaped the surprise rainstorm? Nope, rather from the artificial light, eerily gleaming from their phones. To me, this is one of the saddest sights in modern-day America. And yet, its occurrence is becoming the norm. 

For at least fifteen minutes, the couple did not speak two words to one another as they continued to absently stare at the glowing boxes in their palms. Only when the gooping-hot nacho cheese appetizer had lost its goopy did the couple finally take a break from the 'priorities in life'--Facebook, Instagram, ScoreCenter.

Now, before I sound like a crotchety old curmudgeon (and maybe, I already do), let me say that I do believe that technologies like smart phones do have their perks. Such devices have allowed us to get information faster and easier casting us forward years; however, devices such as these have also inhibited our human interaction skills jolting us backward centuries.

I try to imagine a much different dinner scene of the young couple:

The woman smiles shyly as she glances at the smattering of freckles on the man's hairline instead of at the glowing screen with the hairline crack in the corner.

The man inwardly sighs at the sassy gleam in her emerald eyes instead of at the glint of light emanating from his device.

A shiver of electric anticipation runs up the woman's spine as the man reaches across the table with his calloused hands, instead of an artificial buzz that sends tremors through the woman's fingertips from the rough surface of the keyboard.

In all of this, they could've reveled in their shared experience, their shared adventure in the city, a shared secret perhaps--instead they basked in a shared emptiness.