I can’t think of a single instance my entire time abroad that I wished I had a car. Everything was accessible via public transportation or walkable (at least by my standards). From my house I could walk to a Metro station, transfer twice and be at the airport in less than an hour, all for less than 2 euros.

Granted, Madrid was the cheapest city to stay in, but no matter what airport I used I could easily catch a shuttle or bus into the city center for a reasonable price. I would never plan those details because it was always safe to assume that there’d be a convenient way to get where I needed from the main station or airport. The flights themselves were not that expensive either, averaging around 70 euros each direction (some places I went to were really expensive, pushing up that average). In Italy I rode the train everywhere and could easily do a roundtrip for less than 20 euros.

This accessibility is not limited to the major cities, as I caught buses or regional rail trains into small towns for a few euros. Most people don’t even own cars and if they do it’s most likely a family car that was bought way beyond the teen years. It’s nearly impossible to avoid using public transportation—that’s how handy and ubiquitous it is.

The daily commute to work is certainly easier and getting around with subways or buses is usually more environmentally friendly. The majority are quite clean (especially for the number of people using them) and safe. Just hop on and sit back with your newspaper (always handing out free ones on the streets) while someone else deals with the traffic and solves the parking problem.

I used the systems to such an extent that I think it’s safe to call myself an expert in public transportation. Finding platforms, purchasing tickets, determining which line to take on that complicated map of colors, and figuring out what the big status signs mean is something I can do in any language.

Of course, there’s nothing this extensive in the US. Some of the major cities have Metros that work alright in terms of locations reached, cleanliness, and travel time, but that’s barely worth noting. At first I thought I was simply overlooking the public transportation options available here, but when I got back I found that there would be no way to get home (or even nearby) from the airport without my parents picking me up. How about a trip up to Boston from Philadelphia without a car? Nope, only outrageous prices for excruciatingly long commutes.

Public transportation is simply impractical. In fact, more than impractical, it’s stupid to use. There is no way to get from point A to B in most cases without using a car at some point in the journey. We are a nation dependent on cars. As much as I grumble about it and watch the environment degrade despite the ever-increasing gas prices, our towns weren’t built to be public transportation friendly and there’s really no going back now. I miss my freedom!

I don’t drink very much.  It’s a not-so-common thing to find for someone college-aged, but it has never really been a problem for me.  While abroad, though, part of me certainly felt like I was missing out on a lot.

Alcohol is at the center of so many cultures and is around whenever people get together.  Tapas are an integral part of the Spanish culture, whereby you go out for drinks and nibble on shared platters of really good food.  Often, you can only get the tapa if you order a drink. In Germany, the beirgartens are chock-full of cheery people clinking glass steins over long wooden tables.  My cousin referred to the pubs in London as her living room while she was an au pair because they were the only place she could watch TV and chat with people her own age.  No matter what city I was in the nightlife was buzzing with young people going bar or club hopping.

Of course, we Americans have our own festivities where drinking is a big part of the entertainment.  I have grownup with these traditions and know the difference between “responsible” and “reckless” drinking firsthand.  Sometimes it’s awkward to turn down a drink in the US, but I at least can tell myself the lame excuse that it’s illegal and also not a good addition to my already overflowing list of health concerns.  There are smokey rooms with music or TVs blasting and the crowd roaring, fighting for sound waves with the band so that every other word is a “What?”  Or the even less classy fraternity party on campus in the dank corridors of a house where your shoes stick to the beer and vomit stained floors in corridors packed with drunk people doing stupid stuff or playing beer pong.  Nope, not interested in meeting people that way.

But abroad, I had trouble telling myself that I just wasn’t interested like I do here.  You meet someone you want to get to know more about and the logical place to go is to the bar.  At the Nigel Kennedy concert, I kept thinking how amazing it would be to go have a drink with him and see who he really is outside his aura of fame (quite a surprising thought for me).  Every town I visited I wanted to get to know the locals–the essence of any place–and where is a more likely place to find them to chat for a few hours than the small-town bars?  You’d never have to plan a trip again; just go right to the source.

The relaxed, friendly atmosphere of a pub brings out all those hidden thoughts.  Oh the things I could have learned about the people and places I visited in the bars.  Conversations flow and time flies.  Hearty outbursts of laughs and chinking glasses slip out the doors.  It’s a whole new world back there, but those doors were closed and locked by me.

Usually I am very good at guessing how someone’s voice will sound on first impression.  I think our brains have evolved over time to make judgment based on visual clues.  Little kids speak in different tones and volumes than adults or pubescent boys.  It’s just something I feel we are all accidentally trained in.

But, boy, was I wrong.  These skills were practically worthless abroad.  Somehow the combination of hearing foreign languages and new “types” of people threw me off.  So many times I was caught off-guard thinking, for example, that male panelist should have a lower pitched voice or child playing on the street should be shriekier.

Perhaps the new voices come from variations in food or physical build.  Certainly a part of it is cultural in that we repeat the inflections we hear and certain societal figures are supposed to vocally emphasize certain traits (e.g. slow, rolling wisdom of a grandparent or un-contained excitement of a parent over a child’s achievement).  And you’ll have to trust me that all this is more than accents and attitudes.  The best analogy I can think of is when you listen to a band for years and then find their newly released album is so different it’s hardly recognizable.  My ears enjoyed the shock in discovering new “instruments.”

For many people, going abroad is a chance to flee from the problems at home or to let loose and find their true self.  For me, I think it’s important to point out that it was not the party of a lifetime nor a frantic rush for self-definition.  I did get a break from my rigmarole at Penn, yes, but it wasn’t all fun and games.  Instead of stretching my mind in lectures on who-knows-what, I was faced with daily challenges of a personal and intimate nature.  I realized the importance of having the option to simply pick up my phone on a whim to talk to a friend or family member, resolving uncertainties and filling in that solitude that so often encapsulated me.

The simplest conclusion, of course, is that I can survive in unknown worlds where I don’t speak the language or even have a clue of what I am doing.  I will miss the adventures I wrapped myself in while doing even the most mundane things and the pride of knowing I actually understood what that guy said to me in Spanish.

The semester wasn’t a search for my identity, either.  I didn’t get my nipple pierced and a tattoo, go skydiving, or push the lower drinking age (18) to the limits.  Of course, I have changed (and who couldn’t have?), but not so much that you couldn’t recognize me.  I came abroad with a strong foundation of who I am, so there was not a whole lot of room to leave a strong impression.

I came completely open to becoming a new person, adopting all the latest trends and customs (I wish I was comfortable doing the double-cheek kiss here; it is a much better greeting than a handshake or awkward whatever), even finding a European boyfriend but it just didn’t happen like that.  Perhaps it was more a search for my “purpose” than identity.

The topic of “identity” was actually something we frequently discussed in class.  Over and over again in my Art History, Spanish Literature, and Spanish History courses the theme of what defines a country or specific cultural identity came up.  Profound poets, powerful politicians, and awe-inspiring artists across the centuries have debated this question and one of the main conclusions has always been the landscape.  Each environment is ideal for certain types of trees and foliage that would die or grow differently else where, making the scenery the only un-replicable characteristic of a country.  Language can shift, architecture can be mimicked, foods can be traded and meals accommodated but you certainly can’t move forests or mountains that have been there from the beginning of the Earth.

And it really is true.  After visiting so many places images start to blur, but if you zoom out to the natural scene you begin to see that only in the UK are there so many shades of green, in Madrid the arid land, huge trees in Sweden, and rolling hills in Italy (and this is all a generalization, as I am sure even more technical names can be assigned).  I would bet that if you plopped a world traveler down in any country and asked him to declare where he is, it would be quite easy to do just from the landscape.

What’s funny is that all these other non-landscape traits are exactly what reveal the identity of a foreign traveler.  Americans are easy to pick out with their t-shirts and jeans with baseball caps or Uggs with a fleece jacket or Abercrombie apparel.  But even the traits of an Italian or Spaniard or Russian became very apparent as the semester passed and I traveled more.  Without knowing the language, I could still sound out its origin.  Dress codes and mannerisms are all quite different, so putting all the variables together and doing a bit of people watching on the streets makes to a fun guessing game.  It’s funny thinking that I acquired the skill of distinguishing Europeans.

Of course, other people did the same to me and mostly identified me as an outsider.  Many were polite enough to ask where I was from, to which I half-rolled my eyes at the obviousness that I am American.  I didn’t think of doing this until the end, but I think it would have been interesting to ask the inquirer which country it looked like I was from.  Only in Germany and the UK did my facial structure and red hair, respectively, allow me to blend in and be mistaken as an insider.

I had never before thought so much about what it means to be an American or even “who I am.”  The closest association I have had would be the whole Midwestern-Southern-Eastern-West Coast distinguishing in the US, but even that was superficial in comparison.  It’s not as clear as a racial difference, either, because I can distantly relate to being the four strands of European-ness in my family and therefore imagine myself as not entirely American.  If it seems kind of murky, that’s right; it’s kind of a jumble of emotions and thoughts in my head, but hopefully this at least points out some of the questions that could only have been raised from being abroad.

Europe is the land where squirrels are replaced by pigeons and where status is no longer reflected in the whiteness of your picket fence or how lush your lawn is. Most of the time, exploring this land was like walking around without glasses on, surrounded by blurriness. You try to make intuitive guesses at what you are seeing and where you should be heading, but are mostly still confused. It’s like living as Mr. Magoo. But even with that handicap, it is truly amazing how much you can understand without actually understanding. You go with your gut navigating streets and put your senses to work. You always hope either logic or luck will be on your side, and fortunately for me, that was usually the case.

Since my scenery was constantly changing and so different from the US, I was anticipating just as much change to have passed at home. I am so accustomed to spotting minute differences that when I looked at my house with the same scrutiny, I was able to quickly discover the smallest alterations. Subconsciously, though, I was quite surprised at how little really changed. At the pace I was going, I was expecting to find purple trees growing or something drastically different from when I left to compare to my prior immersion.

I would say that I have a pretty good sense of direction, but one of the hardest things was following directions from a stranger on the street. Following the pointed finger can only get you so far and remembering a series of street names in another language is almost impossible. They end up being just another vocabulary word I need to memorize on top of so many more. Normally I would rely on that mental image that is somehow conjured to associate even the most obscure words in English but street names are so unfamiliar and out of context that I would have to ask for help again at each step of the way.I remember getting particularly lost in the “teeny-tiny” pueblo of Cuenca outside Madrid trying to find the bus station so I wouldn’t be stranded there over night during the festivities of Semana Santa. I still have no idea how to get to the station, but if it weren’t for my repeated inquiries–5 within one hour of travel, 30 minutes of which was “detoured”–I would never have made it home. I probably would have been better equipped with a map (inquiry number 3) but don’t fool yourself into thinking maps solve all problems. One shopkeeper (number 4) even walked a few blocks with me and nearly all of them told “todo recto!” which meant nothing to me then, but I now know (and won’t forget) that is the entirely unhelpful and ambiguous direction to “keep going straight!” Moral of the story: always be willing to ask for help and even more willing to give it to the weary traveler.

Being in Spain is not like living in some third-world country or even another planet, so there are a lot of things in common in terms of brands, values, and personalities. But, of course, there are some differences–not all are uniquely Spanish, but just new to me. Some are just city life versus my suburban upbringing. Most variations were easy to adjust to, but there are certainly some I never got used to over my four months there. After taking oodles of notes, I am excited to present the multiple part, quite extensive observations on How to be a Spaniard. Your preparation includes information on How Spaniards Do It, Say It, Eat It, and Live It. In just a few hours you will know practically everything there is to know, so click on those links, read on and study hard.

My original intention was to do mini-posts or to update the individual pages (you can always find them in the note running along the right gutter of the blog) as I learned about these things, but that didn’t exactly workout as planned. Instead, I let the notes accumulate in a giant Word doc that I have just now finished sifting through. (What a big weight off my chest.) Almost every little item on the list has a story behind it, so feel free to ask or let your imagination do the explaining.

I wasn’t planning on visiting London twice, but it was very expensive to fly direct from Stockholm to Madrid and the first visit with my mom was a last-minute thing. I was able to re-visit some of the places I had seen with my mom before to take pictures freely and navigate the city a bit more easily.

I figured the lack of a language barrier was appealing enough, especially after not really knowing what was going on in so many cities before. The funny thing, though, is that I could hardly understand about 50 percent of the people. The pronunciation is so different that if it weren’t for maps, I would have gotten very lost with the directions people gave me. This is not even considering the Irish or other non-Brits where it is nearly as taxing having a conversation with them as in Spanish, especially because you are telling yourself this is English, why don’t you understand? But when someone refers to High Street as Eye Street, that can surely confuse you when you are trying to visualize the scene. And since when is lettuce rocket?

My first day I ended up doing a 20-mile walking tour, evading the 5 Pound ($10) Tube costs. The friend I was staying with lived a bit outside the city, but it was quite easy to walk around because of the Thames River Pathway. It runs along the river, connecting to the main parts of the city center and always has plenty of opportunities to people watch. The Grand Tour included: Tower Bridge (what people mistakenly refer to as the London Bridge…which was sold and re-constructed in Arizona…), the National Portrait Gallery, Leicester Square, Picadilly Circus, the Photographer’s Gallery, Covent Garden, the major shopping area of Oxford Street (which I discovered was the scene of a knifing the afternoon before), the huge lawn space full of pickup soccer games and rentable beach chairs in Hyde Park (not the park from 101 Dalmatians, though–that’s Regent Park), Albert Memorial (gorgeous surprise), Harrods, Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, and finally Westminster Abby, Big Ben/Parliament, and the Eye at sunset.

Most places I just walked around and tried to pickup the vibe of the area, but I did walk inside the famous (although I do not recall hearing of it before–perhaps in the movies?) British department store, Harrods. With a doorman out front, it seemed like a posh hotel, while an attendant in the bathroom (free perfume samples and mints, of course) hinted at a deluxe restaurant or theater. The detailed signs and themed rooms (e.g. Egypt for handbag collections) gave it a museum atmosphere. (The price tags may have as well been from a museum.) No detail was overlooked in the frivolously decorated, well-staffed (way more employees than customers) departments, ranging from food and bakery to shoes to jewelery and accessories to card shop. I am sure the major department store we visited in Japan was modeled off Harrods, but the Japanese had a cleaner style and didn’t apply quite have the same outlandish decadence. I imagine Philadelphia’s former Wanamaker’s would have been similar in its heyday.

Nearly forgetting that London was the scene and inspiration for the Harry Potter books, my second day I headed out to Oxford. There were a few moments of debate as to whether I should visit Cambridge (considering I am more of a science and engineering person, approaching the apply-to-grad-school point of my life), but I chose Oxford since it was extremely easy and affordable to get to. Once again, I went without a map or even knowing which stop to get off at but a few questions later, I was on my way.

Though the town is chock full of tourists, the students were still in classes and as a result a number of buildings were (rightfully so) closed off to the public. Per the advice of a gift shop cashier (who saw my bag from Japan and struck up a conversation with me), I found the little cafe Rowling wrote some of her books in and paid for a tour of the Divinity School and Bodleian Library, both of which have interesting little histories and were used in a few scenes in the Harry Potter movies. I missed the Great Hall of Christ College, though, that is the setting for the Great Hall in the films. There is a highly acknowledged elitist feel to the university and without actually visiting any of the colleges themselves, it makes it quite hard for me to imagine being a student there.

My last morning in London I finished up my Harry Potter tour by visiting King’s Cross station with Platform 9 and 3/4, and Leadenhall Market that was, according to the bookshop clerk, “dressed up” to be the scene for Diagon Alley. As a last hurrah for my love of markets, I traveled along the Northern Line to visit the Camden Markets and the Borough, both of which would have been unpleasantly crowded had it not been drizzly or a Thursday.

Even with all this activity, I must admit that London was not one of my favorite cities. There is something about British people that strikes me funny funny and bothers me. Is it that they feel un-genuine and constantly busy (they have some of the most, at least somewhat healthy, meals-on-the-go options)? Is it their Victorian ideals coming out as curt and petty? Is it the accents? Maybe it’s the overdone pub life that my cousin referred to as her “living room” when she was an au pair there? Or maybe I have tainted myself with an air of bitterness towards the 2:1 exchange rate? Regardless, if there is a next time for Europe for me, I will most likely head to the rolling green hills of the towns outside of London and avoid the city proper.

Both Stockholm and Gothenburg could have been anywhere USA. Seems hard to believe, but it was the first place I found a Target-like store (which seems like an indication of America to me). Restaurants, stores, the hodgepodge of architecture, and my favorite—BARBEQUES! (they used these handy, disposable aluminum pans with charcoal roasting beneath a wire rack)—were all reminiscent of the home I was so close to returning to. American TV and all-English channels were just as common as Swedish ones and that is mostly due to the large bilingual population that sometimes switches between languages mid-conversation. The word you say in Swedish when you see someone on the street is Hey! (though it is spelled hej in Swedish). They also claim to not have their own arts culture and as a result the majority of their music (Jack Johnson is huge) and movies are American or, perhaps, British. The love of Ikea, H&M clothing, Volvo, Pippi Longstocking and the Nobel Prize are all associated with Sweden. And it was as if I was home because I wasn’t stared at (maybe my 25% Swedish heritage was shining through).

But, Sweden does have its own attributes. Take the food. I tried Chocolate Chili ice cream, oodles of black licorice candy, cola chews, and salt-flavored or -coated gummies. I bet it’s all around the world, but I had never before seen anything but lemon water while here I found cucumber and orange slices floating in pitchers of water. New tastes included Honey Saffron ice cream, Flabar flowers (sorry, no one knew the translation) used in lemonade or refreshing sorbet, and one that I didn’t try, tubes of salty caviar (could be dill, lemon, or any other variety of flavors). The assortment of breads and rye crackers was pleasantly overwhelming to the omnipresent white bread and baguettes in Spain. The biggest shocker was the fact that traditional Swedish meatballs are eaten not with noodles, but with boiled potatoes, a cranberry-like sauce, and sweet pickles. For breakfast, we had a very soft flatbread and muesli with yogurt in an orange juice-like carton that is unscrewed and poured out.

While I was there I met uncharacteristic 26 degree (79 F) weather which was quite an assault to the long sleeve and blue jean wardrobe I had packed. In fact, while there I got my first sunburn—even after four months in Spain! This was the main reason why I waited to go to Sweden to visit my cousins (well, third cousins). One is a student in the university town of Gothenburg and the other works not too far from Stockholm, where we rendezvoused after short train rides on both our parts.

Considering I was visiting my cousin during classes at her school, much of the talk was about the similarities and differences between Swedish and American university. Her university reminded me of so many other schools I have been to in the US. Computer labs, library, separate buildings for all the departments, construction, and flyers everywhere. Adding in a third comparison, the universities I had seen in Spain and other countries were either historic sites or just not appreciated with the same respect as I am familiar with. These buildings looked like students lived here and spent most of their time studying (er, “studying”) in contrast to so many others that seemed to just be places for class and then you leave.

In Sweden, being one of the most utopian and advanced country of Europe (as you go south, claims my Spanish professor, things deteriorate), education is free and the government even gives a monthly subsidy to help cover housing and food. Dorm living is not nearly as popular abroad and Greek life does not exist, as far as we could tell. But her university (and perhaps others), have Societies to serve the fraternity/sorority role. Although they are more academic oriented for a specific major, they throw parties, have a similar recruitment process for the current members to “bid” on you, and informal initiation tasks in order to show your dedication to the society. Within a university building, each society has a “secret” room to hangout and store their stuff in, often furnished with a huge sofa and big screen TV. Picking up a flavor of Scouts, each society has a jumpsuit uniform that is worn whenever they gather and is decorated with patches from other societies they have worked with or for completing predetermined tasks. It is an honor to be a member and an excellent resume attribute, but also a huge time commitment.

We wandered the city and a huge park with a free zoo (that would never happen in the US). I learned about a pick-up baseball game Swedes like to play called Burning Ball, the influx of immigrants, and how Sweden is losing religion with the exception of the songs on the last day of school they sing. Really, it could have been anywhere in the US.

Stockholm had a similar American-vibe to Gothenburg, too, but not as strong. The hippie, organic, fair trade only population is thriving, as we saw in one market and somehow people in University of Michigan apparel were all over the city. I must have seen at least 5 people wearing hats or shirts. Maybe there was some sort of reunion? Were they Swedes or tourists? We were puzzled, but it was fun spotting them all over.

Like New York City, Stockholm has a few islands, one of which reminded me of Mackinac Island with its resort atmosphere, folk culture, and nation-renowned foods. It is mostly a national park area with trails and little restaurants to grab a snack, but at the entrance dock where the ferry drops you off is the complete antithesis to all the tranquility and nature, a tourist-ized amusement park. Eww.

I found the city of Stockholm to be quite dirty with trash and graffiti more present than I recall in any of the other cities I visited. There must have been something about the area by our hostal because I saw people peeing in the streets at least three times over the course of two days. This was both drunken peeing as well as a woman who dropped her pants in broad daylight. Bushes or on the side of the street, it didn’t matter. Granted, the shock-quality of public peeing could be due to my suburb-upbringing, but I cannot recall it being so prevalent in any other place.

Our hostal was literally floating, located in the lower cabins of a docked boat turned restaurant, so we got the smells, compact spaces, and movements of an old ship all weekend. Throughout the weekend my cousin and I kept having the sensation that the ground was rocking.

It was interesting interacting with the locals because my cousin is Swedish and obviously speaks the language, but I just have English. Sometimes it was assumed that I knew Swedish and other times people assumed she didn’t know Swedish. I would ask a question in English and they would struggle to get a clear response back until she intervened. It was always this odd mix of English and Swedish, no one ever sure which language to speak (since many Swedes know English) or how much anyone understood. Again, between my Spanish, English, and ability to read people there was quite a lot that I did understand without translation (I could even sound out some menu items).

Even after walking all over the old part of the city and seeing the changing of the guard, searching for restaurants to eat at, visiting a market and some shopping streets, as well as enjoying the views from the national park and a big rock hill, we still managed to have more time than we knew what to do with in Stockholm. We played cards (I learned a new favorite) and went to the movies (English with Swedish subtitles) because for some reason this was the only weekend in May that didn’t have any live shows.

Disregarding the currency confusion (because Swedish Krona prices seem 10 times larger than Euros or Dollars, even with a balanced exchange rate—e.g. 84 Kr for a sandwich), some new characters in the language, and traffic lights that went Green, Yellow, Red, Yellow, Green, I really felt like I could have been in the US. I just didn’t feel too culturally challenged, though I think being with my cousins shielded me a bit from that. If it weren’t for them, I would probably never have visited nor felt like I was missing out on too much. Then again, it is kind of interesting finding a place where you feel like you are at home when you are so far from it. To counter this normality, the next time I visit my cousins and I are going to go to the northern tip of the country to see the Northern Lights and visit the cities of the Midnight Sun Coast, where there is only 1 hour of daylight or 1 hour of night, depending on the season.

I haven’t written much about my classes (with the exception of those concerts) because they pale in comparison to my adventures as a tourist traveler. But, since the semester is over, I feel I can appropriately discuss them now. Some of my classes were taught by Spaniards so I was able to experience the “official” Spanish classroom setting and expectations, if not merely because they were reflecting the values and experiences they had as students.

I found that my Spanish teachers seemed to have low expectations of the students (enough so that they would often beg people to turn in assignments or do their homework instead of leaving them behind or failing them for not doing their work), but then they would grade extremely hard or proudly announce to the class how well we had all done and not give out a single A.

Exams were also a tell-me-everything-you-know style where we were given very broad, open-ended questions and then expected to write for the time given and hopefully say enough and the right things to get a good grade. So many times we would receive comments asking us to include things that we knew but just didn’t realized that was really what they were looking for. In contrast, the essay-type exams I have taken tend to force you to make a stance or state your opinion and develop some sort of driving thesis, often with comments to include dates, artworks, formulas, etc. as a hint of what specifics you should include or not in the short amount of time given. Being the purpose-driven person that I am, I was not particularly pleased with this form of examinations.

Naturally because my school was smaller, the class size was as well (average 10 people) and the dynamics were quite different. It is true that Spanish students do not feel inclined to participate in class as many Americans know they should even if they choose not to.

Overall, I realized how badly I need an intellectual environment to thrive. Without a challenge present, I lost the invigorating aspect of academia that I so love. I went to class mostly for entertainment and to fill the hours, rather than to walk away thinking about some new concept or way of approaching the world. Information did not seem unique to me, but rather a regurgitation of so many other sources before and therefore unimpressive. Exams were something that, if I studied enough for them, I could get a good grade. In comparison to many exams I have taken at Penn (or many other American universities) in which no amount of studying would have changed my grade. I noticed the difference in the values and thinking styles of my peers abroad and it made me appreciate even more the intellectual environment at Penn.

Despite my intense disdain for the high-stress environment at Penn, I still missed my classes there. It felt weird to not have that huge crescendo of assignments, exams, and things to do at the end of the semester, though I didn’t exactly miss that chaos. It almost felt more like high school.

I am not trying to sound like a pretentious academic (because I would hope you know I am far from that), but merely acknowledge the differences and expose my realization for the need of an intellectual classroom and community to do and feel my best; something that I was always told by others but never quite internalized to this extent. Some of my peers also commented on this lack of academic regality, so it was not just a contrast that I was experiencing.

Another thing I never thought twice about was having a good library.  Our school library was very small, leaving us with problems of study space and poor resource selection.  This was particularly problematic for a final paper that I had to do because there simply were not enough books to thumb through, and my teacher had to restrict us and lower her expectations.  Surely it’s not the same, but I can see a bit more clearly what is meant by the disadvantage of being an inadequately funded school.  I also adore libraries in general, so I felt a little bit empty without one.  No adventures into bookland to find something new to pique my interest.  Looking back, I should have taken the time to explore a Spanish library, but I never got to it.

I will admit, though, that as much as it may appear to be, this is most certainly not a complaint about the semester, considering how difficult it would be for me have had so many adventures with a heavy course load. Though I have lived in Philly for three years now, I still do not know it nearly as well as any other city I visited for only 36 hours and have never gone to NYC, Boston, or D.C. like I was so determined to do when I chose to go to school out here. In fact, I probably don’t even know Detroit as well, and I have lived there for nearly all my life! By the time I graduate next year, I am going to change all of that. (Hopefully putting this in words and publicly declaring this will keep me honest.)

Every possible scenario that could happen in a bullfight happened. A man got trampled and hurt and the matador did, too (though he just stood right up).  A bull wouldn’t get “mesmorized” by the cape so it couldn’t be killed in the fight and had to be herded off the field by these white with brown spots–he was malo or plain stupid with ADD-like tendencies.  (During this fight–because there are actually 6 within the event, 3 per matador–someone was so frustrated they threw a shoe in the middle, raising more controversy.)  People protested against the fights during a transition period (because half of Spain supports them and the other half thinks it’s low culture or cruel) and were swooped away by the police.  A new matador also won his first ear and paraded around the circumference to wave and blow kisses at his adoring fans who threw fans and hankies that he would retrieve and throw back.  (This honor is granted by the approval of the crowd via standing ovation or waving white hankies. )

Thanks to the help of the Spanish man I sat next to, I was able to understand a lot more. That, and studying the tradition with all its corresponding controversies, made me really appreciate the event. I wasn’t expecting I would like it (it does come with a lot of blood and brutality) and only went because my dad encouraged me to do so, but at the end of the day (well, semester) I would go back.  They are dirt cheap, too, so that’s all the better.  In fact, there are also bullflights in South America that I would love to see when I get down there to hear “good” Spainsh…someday.