This is It...

I have only a couple days left until I leave Spain and head for home. It’s crazy how fast it’s gone by. But the fact that my time here is almost done has stirred up a lot of emotions and thought within me: worries about the unknown future, excitement to go home, and sadness at the same time to leave a place that I have come to love. Although I can’t wait to get home, to sit in my warm kitchen with my family and eat my mom’s delicious crispy waffles, cuddle with my dog, and run in my favorite park, I’m also dreading the endless “how was your trip?” and “what did you learn?” questions. I guess I can just tell them to read my blog  And that’s exactly why those kinds of questions just can’t be answered with a simple response: it literally would take volumes to describe my time here and what I’ve learned. BUT, in the interest of being prepared with intelligent, thoughtful, and articulate answers, I thought I’d give them a whirl:

Hypothetical Question 1: How was your trip?
In one word: eye-opening.

What I wish I had time to say:

A few of my favorite conversations:
-An hour and a half discussion about faith with my 35 year old host brother Paco one day after lunch while sitting in the living room, and Carmen (my host mom) asleep in the armchair. Also, him teaching me and my roommates how to make sushi and salad and crepes (He´s a professional chef) and getting to eat his incredible food.
-Chatting with a middle-aged Swedish man in an airport, who was drunk on Spanish wine and told us that the loved us about five times during the conversation, in English, with an accent that sounded like he had Down’s Syndrome (but he didn’t).
-Sitting on the edge of my bed and having political, religious, and cultural talks (sometimes debates) with my two fabulous roommates (while snacking on Nutella).
-Exchanging a few words with the Italian old lady who lives in my apartment while in the elevator, and getting a “Ciao bella!” when I left- made my day.
-Being asked by an old Spanish man in the street if he could paint me and pay me for it: a bit awkward, but still memorable.
-Practicing Spanish on runs with Tim in the Sierra Nevadas, and listening to him get so darn good at Spanish in such a short time it was scary.
-Talking with a group of Australians, who live in London, while at a hostel in Italy (and joking about their view of Americans, and some Aussie slang, like “swimmers” instead of “bathing suit”).
-Having a great talk over coffee and tea in Oxford’s union club with my dear friend Madison, Tim, and our friend Kelly who is studying there and showed us around for a day.
-Trying to solve Spanish puns while spending time with some of my favorite people, Mark and Karen, Tim, and the beautiful Spanish family of Guillerme and Toni in North Africa during a visit to their house one afternoon.
-Debating about women’s roles and rights in my Spanish class with students from all over the world, and standing up for what I believe in, even though one Greek guy in particular gave me dirty looks the whole time- also made my day.
-Chatting with Carmen about the joys of being young and the life lessons she’s learned as she’s gotten older.

A few of my favorite places:
-The Sierra Nevada Mountains: amazing hiking, beautiful scenery, and some great rock climbing. One afternoon, Tim and I hiked around for hours, found a deserted farmhouse next to a river, and scaled a ridge by walking on a narrow animal track, and the whole time I was terrified that the bulls we’d seen grazing down below were dangerous, and could potentially attack us. I later discovered that we had been safe, since the bulls were wearing bells and weren’t the free-roaming, aggressive kind that can kill. My host father, Paco, had once been hiking near the same place and a bull charged at him, sending him rolling down a cliff to escape. Apparently the bull ring isn’t the only place bulls like to charge.
-Melilla, Spain: I love this city so much. It´s not very touristy, and it´s not even very big. But the people I´ve met there are so awesome. It is such a diverse place: Moroccans and Spaniards and a ton of other cultures all live in the same city, that has the coast on one side, and Morocco on the other. One of my favorite memories of Melilla was going to the fair with our friends Mark and Karen in August. All the little Spanish kids were dressed up in traditional Spanish clothes, and it was so fun to wander around and take it all in.
-My bed: after a long day, it’s the only place I want to be, naturally. But it also has been the place where I do most of my writing. I prop the pillow up against the headboard, put on some quiet, relaxing music, and get out my lap-top. Even though I only look at a white wall, there’s a painting of a man sitting in a plaza in a city, and a gold-rimmed large mirror that’s too high for me to see myself in (on lazy weekend mornings, I’m grateful for that!). Also, Carmen likes to change the comforter cover just about every week- I really don’t know where she keeps them all, there’s been at least four so far.
-Pan y Chocolate: Pretty self-explanatory, but not just any old bakery. This place makes some seriously good chocolate croissants, and I’ve a bit of a connoisseur now that I’ve been to Paris, and probably six or seven different bakeries in Granada alone.
-The Cinque Terre: five little villages you can hike between, along the coast of Italy. Enough said.
-Oxford: a university town in England, complete with the dining Hall of Harry Potter, old libraries steeped in history, and scholarly charm that makes the place magical in its own right.
-my living room: Americans are so far behind. My host mom has this table in front of the couch and these comfy chairs, and the sides are made out of blanket material so you can put it on your lap. Under the table , there´s a little heater, so you put your feet on this ledge, cover your legs with the blanket, and you never want to move! Gosh, i´m going to miss that thing. But more than that, I had a great time chatting with my host family at the table, laughing and eating way too much bread (it´s a staple here with every meal).

Hypothetical Question 2: What did you learn while studying abroad?
In one word: Tons.

Long answer:
-How to live out of a backpack: After traveling four three weeks around Europe, hopping from train to train in the sweltering heat of August, you really learn not to care about wrinkles or stains or the occasional scenta of b.o. on your clothes.It sounds gross, but it really changes your perspective on "neccessities". For that, I am thankful. I´ve come to learn things are a lot less complicated (and a lot lighter) with less STUFF. Also, you learn to resist shopping too much when you realize you have to carry it all with you.
-Spanish: no brainer. BUT it still is something I´ve learned. I feel like I can communicate so much better in Spanish now, and I can understand when people talk fast now, which is a feat in itself for me! I wish I had more time here to learn even more Spanish. But I´m so thankful for how much I´ve improved; I love the feeling of being able to talk with someone in Spanish, and know that if I would have never put the work in to learn the language, I would probably never be able to talk with them if Spanish is their only language. It makes all the endless hours of studying and embarrassing language mistakes in conversations it all worth it when I feel like I´m really connecting with someone.
-It´s good to take risks, life is boring without them: Before coming to Spain, I was itching for adventure. But I didn´t really think about how that willingness to be flexible and open and daring would affect my personality and perspective on life. I guess now that I´ve been on this adventure, I realize that, even though there are hard, stressful, and emotional times that come with it, stretching yourself is so important. It´s so easy for me to want to take the safe road, to stay in my comfort zone and plan exactly what my future will look like. But lately, I´ve really been challenged to go for my dream as a journalist even though it´s scary. I have no idea if I will get a job (it´s extremely competetive), but I also know that if I don´t try, I will always regret it. I don´t think I would have come to that realization if it wasn´t for this trip.
-Don´t panic: "everything will be alright". When I lost my passport,I had one sleepless night, and one stressful morning at the American Embassy in London waiting outside with the guards holding their AK 47´s to get an emergency passport. In the end, I got my purse back with everything still intact after I had left it on the bus the night before. Moral of the story: constant worry won´t add any years to your life. Sometimes all you can do is pray and trust God that everything will be ok. Most of the time it is. And the rest of the time, we are never alone.
-Reach out:No matter where you are in the world, there are some bad, annoying people. Thankfully, you are also always going to find good, loving, incredible people who brighten up your life and keep you laughing until the end. When you are open to meeting new people, new friends can be one of the biggest blessings. Especially when you learn things from them, or you relate with them in really special ways, or you feel a little more like yourself whenever you spend time with them. This trip has taught me to be more social, to reach out more and hang out with new people. It spices things up, no matter where you are.

I really can´t believe this adventure is drawing to a close. I don´t want to draw this out, but i just want to say thanks to those of you who have followed my blog. I feel lucky to have had you to share this journey with- i´m serious! It has meant so much to me to know that people care. And maybe in the future I´ll will find something else to blog about. If so, "until next time" my friends.

Carpe Diem.

EL FIN

What do you think?

I rarely believe anyone that tell me they actually had fun during a 5K cross-country race, unless they ran in a “fun run,” which are usually geared toward middle-aged moms and old hairy men reliving their glory days, except in shorter shorts. Don’t get me wrong-I think fun runs are great. But they hardly resemble a collegiate race where there’s always a welcome mat of vomit at the finish line from runners pushing themselves to their absolute limit.

No, college cross-country races are hardly ever fun. After the race is fun, but only after the feeling of nausea and the extreme muscle fatigue subsides enough to feel proud of your accomplishment-and relieved that it’s over. Really, the whole task of running a race is fighting the urge to stop running; it’s an act of resistance, and it’s extremely mental.

Almost everything we choose to resist takes at least some level of mental strength. But often times, nature takes control and wins over our immortal, human selves. For example, it’s easy to fight the urge to sleep for a time with heavily caffeinated energy drinks and triple espressos, but with every high there is always a crash. Eventually, nature takes over and sleep descends upon every insomniac and medical school student desperately trying to stay awake.

Similarly, runners who exert themselves to the maximum of their abilities will eventually grow weary and collapse. An experienced runner knows how to give a race everything they have, but if they choose to do so, they will collapse at the end nonetheless.

Clearly, the act of resistance can take many forms. And since resistance is synonymous with defiance, there are a multitude of spiritual and intellectual questions that arise.

What does it mean to resist God? Is it simply a passive act of running away, of not stepping foot in a church, of plugging your ears when someone speaks about their faith? Or is it more involved than that? I think it’s a lot more complex than one might think.

We are all searching for truth, for proof that what we believe is right. But often times, the attempt to disprove a certain belief becomes far more important. It’s usually our dislikes that define us most: the kind of music we hate, the food we think is disgusting, the political views or beliefs of others we don’t agree with.

It’s exhausting. It’s almost as if the more we try to resist something, the more we are shaken up. It’s inevitable that stronger resistance requires that much more mental strength. In terms of beliefs, it means tougher opposition and amplified defiance against whatever it is you are trying to disprove. Physical exhaustion eventually causes a runner to collapse, and sleep eventually comes to those who are fighting it.

Can the same idea be applied to running away from God? Actively resisting God is, from personal experience, hard work. In order for this to happen, there first must be belief that there is a God, you say. I would disagree. You can read thousands of books scientifically and historically “disproving” that God exists. You can sip tea with world scholars and laugh about the stupidity of believing in God, which is clearly just a crutch for the weak. You can even study the Bible and highlight all the things you don’t understand that sound like contradictions.

But in the end, if God truly does exist, every individual who personally denies God’s existence is simply wrong. It does matter how actively you reject Him or how passionately you dismiss Him. Both those who passively and actively deny God would be off the mark.

Running away is running away- no matter how fast you go, how mentally strong you are, or how much you have trained. In the end, none of us can escape the laws of nature; we will all eventually collapse whether it’s in the middle of the race or at the finish line. It’s only after it’s all said and done that the celebration can truly begin; all the pain, the mental battles, the torment is finally over. You don’t have to run anymore.

What are we waiting for?

Outside of Zara, one of the most popular Spanish clothing stores, there’s a woman who kneels on the pavement every day with her head bowed. She has a little cardboard sign asking for money to help care for her children. And everyday, she wears the same turtleneck sweater and puffy gray vest. She looks to be in her mid-forties, wears glasses on a chain around her neck, and has short brown hair peppered with gray.

At first, this woman annoyed me. I really don’t know whether or not she is one of the panhandlers that has a house and plenty of food waiting for her after her day job of sitting on the street. I’ve heard about lots of panhandlers in the US who are not homeless, and simply work the streets in search of a little extra cash. So I couldn’t help but pass the same judgment on this woman. ‘What right does she have to sit on the street and beg?’ I thought every time I passed her on my way to and from class.

But then, little by little, my attitude about this woman began to change. A couple times a week, I wake up at seven and meet Tim downtown in front of Burger King to go on a run. It takes me exactly six minutes to run from my apartment to our meeting place. To get there I run right past Zara, and the same woman is always there, waiting for the sun to come up.

It got me thinking about what it means to wait for something- whether it’s a day’s worth of spare change or a hefty paycheck. It can easily be argued that all this lady does all day is sit and beg, but personally I’ve never tried it. I have a feeling it’s not the easiest thing in the world, especially in a country where your “street self” is extremely important. For example, all the women here dress up to simply go run errands: even if people are poor, they always appear in public smartly dressed and well-groomed. Culturally, there is much more emphasis is placed on appearance in order to be socially accepted in Spain.

This woman wears the same thing everyday. I can’t help but wonder what she must be feeling as she sits there. She must be embarrassed, even if only a little, to not have more clothes to wear. Her knees must ache from kneeling for so long, and her neck must be stiff from looking at her lap for hours on end. And I’m sure in the past she’s been mistreated, or stepped on, maybe even spit on. In this woman’s case, waiting is not easy. I wonder, when she’s kneeling there with her head bent, if she’s praying. Maybe she’s praying for the day to be over so she can be with her children and out of the public eye.

I can’t easily relate to this woman. The only time I’ve every waited for anything while sitting on the street is for a parade to start. And the only time I’ve ever worn the same thing two days in a row is while camping. But one thing I can relate to is waiting for something. I’m always thinking of the future, whether it’s one hour later or a ten years down the road. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for me: what job I will someday have, where I will live, and what kind of person I will be.

In my life, waiting for is often pretty easy: I have a pile of things to do everyday- papers to write, races to run, friends and family to spend time with. Sometimes I get into the mindset that sitting around and sitting still is the equivalent of sitting on my dreams. How can I ever get anything accomplished if I am not constantly working toward my goals? It’s almost as if the idea of waiting for what the future holds has been repackaged and sold as precious time to shape whatever future I want for myself.

Is there anything wrong with this? Putting all this pressure on myself and being completely goal oriented may make time go by a lot faster- at least a lot faster than kneeling on the pavement all day.

But I’ve come to realize that I am no better than the woman on the street because of how I choose to spend my time compared to how she chooses to spend hers. In fact, I think I could use a little more waiting in my life and a lot less “doing.”

Both my faith and my intellect have taught me that my life isn’t mine to shape. Yes, I am responsible for my actions, for working hard and reaching my goals. But it’s not a one-woman show. Who knows what will happen in the next hour, the next day, the next month? A huge, life-shattering natural disaster may strike tomorrow and then we would all be left with nothing. Or would we?

Maybe what we think of as “nothing” really should be our “everything.” Maybe kneeling on the ground to pray and to wait isn’t a waste of time at all, but a lifeline. A hope. A future.

Let's go for a paseo.

There are some things that grow on you, others that don’t. When I was little, I hated eating raw broccoli-I used to spit it out in my napkin, hide it under the table, and sneak off to the trash can after dinner when I thought my dad wasn’t looking. I still loathe the bitter, dry taste of raw broccoli in my mouth, but I also try to force it down every so often in the name of calcium. With that said, there are some things in life that only grow sweeter with time.

As a girl, I also strongly disliked going on walks without a destination. To me, the idea of spending all that time and energy to walk in a circle, or a straight line, or whatever shape aimless walks seem to make, was as pointless to me as driving somewhere and turning back around immediately after arriving at the destination. Naturally, I hated hiking as well, which was infinitely more boring due to the predictable green and brown scenery.

Thankfully, I grew up and grew out of my narrow-minded views on the art of walking. Little by little, I learned to appreciate my ability to wander. When I was fourteen, I was stranded in bed for a week after a car accident that damaged my upper back. It was the first time I ever experienced immobility, and it opened my eyes to what it’s like to be trapped: I wanted nothing more than to simply go outside and move.

I thought I had learned my lesson, but four years later I developed a stress fracture in my hip from running too much and was confined to crutches for two months. It was one of the hardest experiences of my life, but I sure did appreciate walking after two months of going without. In fact, I loved walking so much I would find excuses to go on walks. Soon after I was off my crutches, I walked forty minutes to the beach and forty minutes back twice in one day.

At this point in my life, I didn’t think I could become any more of a walking aficionado. But then I met my boyfriend, Tim, and I soon realized that I was mistaken. In my mind, five fingers in mine equals walking to the fifth power- it is exponentially better than taking a stroll solo. We’ve had many amazing walks together over the past year and a half: we’ve sauntered through Sunday morning Mexican flea markets in LA, strolled along the beach in San Diego, ambled along the star-lit roads of Bend, Oregon, and marched through the rainy residential streets of Portland.

When I first arrived in Granada to study, I was so very lost- literally. Both of my parents are directionally challenged, so it’s no surprise that it wasn’t until the third grade I finally had the whole “left hand”, “right hand” thing down. With that said, my anxiety to venture out and explore the city on my own was, in my opinion, very valid.

Soon after I arrived, month-long language preparatory classes began. Tim walked me home from class everyday, even though he lived on the opposite end of the city, about a thirty-minute walk each way. One of the first times we walked to my house together, he stopped in the middle of a plaza about a mile from my house and told me to direct us home. I turned to him with a smile, but soon realized he wasn’t kidding. “It’s for your own good,” he told me.

Initially, I was a little mad at him. Tim knew I was horrible with directions, and that I still hadn’t oriented myself with the city. Nevertheless, I started walking to the left, down a narrow street painted with shadows. “Is this the right way?”, I sighed sarcastically. Everywhere around us, people were hustling home from work, or picking up their kids from school. It seemed like the whole world was out, itching to make it home. And I was right in the middle of it. The arches of my feet ached, my back hurt from carrying my bookbag, and I suddenly I felt overwhelmed from the crowds of people that enclosed me.

Somehow, I managed to find my way home. I admit, Tim had to help me a little, but nevertheless I made it back safely. After that experience, something changed. Little by little, I learned my way around the city. I began to wander the infinite collection of alleys without reserve, and begged Tim to go on walks with me in the old Muslim neighborhood, The Albaicin- a maze of whitewashed homes and walled gardens nestled in the hills next to the Alhambra (an ancient Moorish castle).

In my mind, every unknown neighborhood was transformed from its previous form of an eerie breeding ground of danger to an infinite playground. I would saunter past store windows to peek inside at whatever treasures were held inside: sewing shops with an antique dollhouse in the window, tiny clothing stores with handmade dresses and local artwork, and warm bakeries with mouth-watering pastries displayed in glass cases.

A few days ago, Tim and I decided to wander through the Albaicin’s shopping district, filled with Moroccan teahouses and street vendors selling colorful quilts, lanterns, and leather slippers. We climbed up the steep, cobblestoned alleys and soaked in the warm afternoon sun, stopping at whatever shop or wall of graffiti caught our attention. As daylight began to fade, we sat on an ancient wall in the Albaicin and watched the sun’s shadows stain the Cathedral in the distance. We walked home in the dark, stopping at a park along the way with a lighted fountain and past a gang of stray cats who scattered when we passed by.

We walked for about four hours that afternoon, up and down the streets of Granada. We had no place to be, no reason to hurry. All around us, people were rushing to get home, as usual. But when I looked closer, I realized that many people weren’t in a hurry: cute old couples strode side-by-side with groceries in hand, hippies with dreadlocks were out for a walk with their dogs, and young fathers and mothers proudly pushed strollers with the newest member of their family nestled inside.

In Spanish, the word for “walk” is paseo. Recently, I came across a travel book of Spain on the bookshelf in my bedroom. It explained that, in Spain, a paseo is more than a normal walk. In essence, it is a walk with no destination- a ramble. Every weekend, you see hundreds of Spaniards out for their weekly (or daily) paseo with friends and family, even though all the stores are closed on Sundays.

After living in Spain for two months, I now have a new definition of walks. I think “paseo” is so much more fitting. You “walk” to the store, to the school, to a destination. You “dar un paseo” around the city with someone you love, aimlessly wander, let the sea of people on the street wash you up in the rhythm of shuffling feet. I really believe that there is no better way to see the world than to walk everywhere and soak up each neighborhood you enter.

Today, why not go for a paseo? Take in the sights, the smells, the sounds- the good and the bad. People watch. Walk. Stop and pet random people’s dogs. Walk. Wander through corner shop without anything in your pockets. Walk. Watch a sunset. Walk until your legs are heavy and your feet feel like they are going to fall off. There really is nothing sweeter. And finally, when it’s all said and done, add the word “paseo” to your vocabulary. Let’s start a paseo revolution ☺

Girls become lovers, who turn into Mothers

Everyday, I become feel like Granada becomes more and more like home. I’ve grown to love the little things everyday that characterize my life here. I’ve memorized the ring-tone of my host mom Carmen’s cell phone, who is more chatty than a high school girl when a friend or one of her grown children is on the other end of the line. I’ve also grown accustomed to the little sounds of the house: the three cranks the front door lock makes every time I enter or leave, the eighth floor neighbors directly above us who move their furniture every evening around 11 PM like clockwork. There’s also very distinct smells in the house, some better than others. For example after someone takes a shower, the water drips out onto the floor, and the steam mixes with bathroom smells to create a quite rejuvenating sauna in the sense that the smell definitely wakes you up. But I do love the smell of Carmen’s cooking, but not for the reason you might expect.

To be honest, I don’t really enjoy her cooking all that much. She does make some mean salmon soaked in garlic sauce, lentil soup, and fruit salad with olive oil and honey dressing. But I’m not in love with many traditional Spanish staples like fried baby sardines, chorizo bocadillos, and tomato salad. With that said, I am always drawn to the kitchen when the scent of olive oil wafts into my room. I stand in the doorway while Carmen cooks in her shiny orange dress and black apron that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. What I love most about being in the kitchen is how Carmen’s maternal love becomes most evident when she’s cooking. Although that might sound odd, it is just one of those things that fills you with a warm feeling. I often ask Carmen if she needs any help, and she’ll point to the napkins on the top shelf, and tell me to get the water jug out of the fridge. She takes care of the rest.

And this is what makes me feel most at home in Spain: the love of a mother. I miss my own mom everyday. But living in a home adds a new dimension to my experience here, which is something very unlike my two years living in the dorms far away from home. Here, I am constantly reminded of my mom through the care and concern Carmen demonstrates towards me. But more importantly, I am reminded what selfless love looks like.

Sure, Carmen gets paid for hosting students, but it is not simply her actions that demonstrate love but her attitude behind it. I love being greeted with a smile when I come home, and laughing at Spanish television shows with her, and seeing my laundry sitting on my bed when after school, folded with care. It is nice being cared for, being loved. And these are all ways my own mom expresses her love for me when I am home. I miss sitting with her down in the basement at night watching TV together, going on neighborhood walks with our dog Tucker (though he’s really only her dog), and driving in the car with her to run errands singing Bette Midler songs.

My mom is a determined woman: she will never, ever let me forget how much she loves me. The past two years when I was away at college, she would sent me at least one letter or card in the mail with comic strips and articles she’d cut out from The Oregonian, Bible verses, stickers, and reddish-orange leaves from the fall that I miss while I'm gone at school. It makes me feel connected to home even when I am a thousand miles away. And then there are always the little notes she writes me in her slightly messy cursive handwriting that took me about 16 years to decipher: “Remember to take your vitamins,” “Good luck on your race this weekend,” and my favorite one of all time, “I love you.”

As I prepare to live in an apartment with friends next semester, it is becoming more and more evident to me how much hard work goes into taking care of a home, being on your own. I’m a little nervous for that next phase in my life. Although I have experience living in the dorms, it is not quite the same as living independently when you have an intercom system in your shoebox room that alerts you it’s quiet time or that there’s paperwork to fill out down in the office.

No, living out in the world is the real deal, and real fears come along with it. Sometimes I’m worried I won’t be able to make it- that I will not have the capacity to balance running and school and my social life as well as housekeeping and cooking. And that’s when I think about Carmen and my mom. Both of these strong women have been such great examples in my life; they are great homemakers, but they are also very selfless people. My mother’s love has shaped me into the person I am today, she’s taught me how to take care of myself through how she’s cared for me. In the same way, I learn new things from Carmen everyday about the world, and life lessons, and what it means to love your children.

About a month ago, I arrived home from school, walked down the hall, and shouted “Hola!” to Carmen who was somewhere in the house. I turned the corner to find her in the kitchen making French fries and chicken. She turned around from the stove, smiled at me, and in her thick Andalucian accent said, “Hola, Mi hija!” (Hello, my daughter!). Instantly, I felt my heart fill with joy, because I knew that was Carmen’s way of saying she loved me. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly get any fuller, Carmen led me into the hallway and pointed to a thick envelope on the table with my name on it, written in the beautiful, loopy handwriting of my mother.

Black and White

I packed mostly black and white clothes in preparation for my semester in Granada, Spain with the intent of having a more versatile, practical wardrobe. To my delight, I arrived in Granada to find narrow, cobble-stoned streets swarming with chic European women clad in black strappy heels and crisp, white blouses.

But fitting in here in Spain isn´t quite as simple as black and white: my blonde hair screams "outsider" almost as much as tourists sporting white Nike tennis shoes and colorful backpacks. But my appearance isn´t the only thing that sets me apart here: some of my beliefs are like night and day in comparison to those of my European classmates.

Last week, my language class broke into a heated discussion about gender roles and the differences among males and females. Many European cultures are traditionally¨"machismo", which means boys are raised to become¨"strong" men who believe crying is a sign of weakness and that cooking and cleaning is a woman´s job only.

It was no surprise, then, when a Greek young man in my class said he would never get a girlfriend if he acted sensitive and emotional. I couldn´t help but challenge his belief, so I asked him in Spanish: "Do Greek girls no like men who are sensitive and honest?¨" Well, I asked for it, and he gave it right back to me with a sneer: "Would you rather date a guy who´s emotional and weak, or one who´s strong?"

His words felt like a whip, and my cheeks started to burn out of embarrassment. But something else happened- right then and there I felt my desire to be a European girl slip out of my fingers like wet soap. "I think it´s about balance," I said, as my voice rose and my speech became more rapid: "Why do you have to choose between the two?" My Greek amigo shot me a nasty look and rolled his eyes, but this time it didn´t shake me. This time, standing up for what I believed trumped my better judgement to remain silent out of cultural sensitivity.

I feel strongly that the connection between heart and mind, emotion and intellect, is a vital aspect of being human- male and female. In a black and white world, women might only be sensitive and men might only be strong. But since our brains are grey matter, we can have a mix of both and it doesn´t make us any less male or any less female.

That day, I walked out of class with a little extra bounce in my step. And the next morning, as I scoured my closet in search of something to wear, I decided against my favorite monochrome outfit and reached for a red and blue sweater instead. And just for good measure, I wrapped a grey scarf around my neck before heading out the door.

Almuneca (a day at the beach)

On Saturday, I went with about 12 other students from my program to the beach, which is only an hour away by bus. We left in the morning and spent the day at a beautiful beach with little island-cliffs to our left and mountains to our right. The best part was that we rented reclining chairs with cushions on them under these cute little umbrellas that look like those hats Asian people in the rice fields wear (that's really the only way to describe them). Anyways, I got to take a nap in the shade, and swim around in the refreshing water while getting to know some of the people in my program. So far, I like everyone: it's funny because Tim and I are the only ones from the West Coast. Most people are either from Chicago or Wisconsin or New York. It's so entertaining to listen to their accents- i just love it! And I love teasing them about it :) But they dish it right back at me, and claim that Tim and I have "West Coast accents" (whatever that means!) It was so much fun relaxing at the beach with new friends. And I can proudly say that I did NOT get burned after my horrible experience in France.

Tim was a riot: he brought our hot pink raft that the French man gave us in Nice, and he wore his little blue goggles from Italy. Needless to say, he was the subject of lots of teasing within our group. Tim is the master of flips and cliff jumping, and that day he earned two new nicknames: Shawn Johnson (like the gymnast) and Spider Monkey. He did me proud :) Sadly, he got a pretty bad sunburn, and his host mom laughed at him when he got home. The other day I met his host mom- she is a riot! In the kitchen she has pictures of her grown daughter on the wall, so I was asking her about them. All of a sudden, she goes, "Don't look at those pictures, look at these beautiful ones!" and points to her refrigirator, which is covered in photos of her three CATS! It's hilarious, she's obsessed with them! Apprarantly the refrigirator is the place where Spaniards display their most prized photographs :)