Now that I am back, I realize that I can tell stories and offer alternative points of view but it is true that you just have to experience some things yourself to fully understand the differences.  Words are not strong enough to convey it all, but unfortunately they are the sturdiest thing I have to keep my memories alive.  I apologize for writing some epic posts but I just don’t want to forget the details.  Even now I need to look at my entries and pictures to remind me of those four months.

Thank goodness I took good notes and forced myself to sit down for a few hours after each adventure editing pictures and collecting my thoughts to write an entry.  Countless memories of people, architecture, and beauty in seven countries are scattered throughout my adventures, trickling every so often into a conversation or accidental thought.

Yet I have so quickly adjusted to living back at home that looking back, my memories seem just as foggy as at the conclusion of any semester.  You would think my brain recognizes that I was abroad last semester (I was only away 129 days and 3700 miles from the country I know for goodness’s sake) and therefore should put some precedence on preserving those precious experiences.  Geez, I can already feel them fading.

This will be my last post about my semester abroad.  I hope you enjoyed tagging along with me for the adventures and I thank you for all your comments and support.  Do you speak Alyssa now?

Every country I visited had some sort of manifestation of counter culture.  Variations of weirdly cut and colored hair, dangling chains, screaming banshee music twanging out of cellphones, piercings in painful-looking locations, baggy and ripped clothes were sported by the populace’s rebellious youth.  While each subculture was trying to be unique and as shocking as possible to the “normal” people, they were nearly all the same across borders.  Teens will always be teens, finding ways to defy authority and distinguish themselves.  And America is no exception to this either.  We have just as strong of a counter culture.

I wasn’t expecting to notice this global commonality, so I suspect that’s why I find it interesting.  As much as I knew Europeans wouldn’t be that different, I was anticipating some awkward (or enlightening, depending on your view) interactions and culture clashes.

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.