Maoz and Montjuic

There comes point when a place- a city, a town, a country- transforms from existing merely as a current address to when it becomes a home. Barcelona is home to me now. I don't know when this change took place, but I can pinpoint the moment when I realized it. I was at my family’s house in Miami a few months ago and as time began to drag, I remember thinking to myself, I can’t wait to get home.

And that was that.

Barcelona, in my mind, is now home.

It's the one place on a map that I can point my finger to and say that's where my stuff is, that's where my bed is, its where my current network is to be found. In flight search engines, my local airport is saved as Barcelona and the little flag that comes up next to my name on Skype is the red and yellow banner of Spain. Barcelona is not just where I live anymore. It's a city where the guy at the café on the corner knows what I want before I order it and where the teller at the bank greets me by name. There is nothing scary left about this city- there’s nothing waiting to jump out at me from around the corner and nothing that I have to try for the first time. I have my favorite restaurants, my hairdressers and my own locker at the gym. I know how long it will take to get to almost any point in the city- and I know which bocadillos to stay away from in the school cafeteria. I know my favorite corners in my favorite plazas, where to get the best patatas bravas in the city and who has the cheapest beer. These things don't necessarily make a place a home, but for me- it's the closest I’ve come in a long time.  

Unfortunately, my time here is limited and in about two months, I will have to go off into the world again and find myself a new home.

Therefore, I must keep reminding myself to enjoy it while it lasts- and I can only hope that my next home welcomes me as readily as this city did. Barcelona isn’t a bad place to occupy for a couple of years.  Its not my ideal- but I’m glad I chose it.

In the beginning of my time here, I established a few lists of my favorite places and features the city has to offer. Now, the lists have changed a bit as I have learned to tailor the city to my own needs and desires. Over a year and an entire MBA degree later...the things I love are not the same- but they are plentiful nonetheless.

I love…

-Saturday morning coffee dates on Passeig De Gracia.

-Strolling along Diagonal on beautiful sunny days- reminding me when I’m just about to forget- that Barcelona is pretty cool.

-Falafel runs to Maoz at 3 a.m. on Las Ramblas.

-Discovering the underground, lesser known side of Barcelona’s nightlife with locals.

-Montjuic at night- and the view of Barcelona from Monjuic at night.

-Massimo Dutti. Who knew?

-Terminal 1 at El Prat. I could spend hours there. In fact, I have.

-Window shopping at Rabat on Rosello. Can’t help it. The glare of the jewels gets me everytime.

-The Vueling in-flight magazine, Ling.

-The skyline full of the long white masts of the boats docked at the port.

-Manchego (secco)

-Plaça Reial’s palm trees

-I love that I figured out the bus system after all this time- it may have taken me over a year but I finally worked out a route that swings me right by Starbucks.

The biggest changes I find between the beginning and the end are the differences linking what I loved then and what I love now. I suppose this, in effect, is what makes a place a home- as opposed to a temporary visit or an impermanent residence.

The most glaring example of this change is what I saw when I looked up then, as opposed to what I see when I look up now.

When I first got here, I loved the drive to school- glancing up and seeing the curves of Gaudi’s designs and the bright blue of the sky that never seemed to darken. Now, the buildings are old news and the weather proved susceptible to nature’s follies. These days, I love looking up in the middle of class and seeing the faces of my classmates. Whether they’re smiling, deep in thought, deep in gchat conversation, rolling their eyes, or even sleeping (you know who you are…), it is their faces that have been the glue between me and this city- making it my home. It is the faces of these people that make me smile to myself knowing that they are in my life- even if its only for another few months.

Running Revelations

You know you are no longer in the throes of the tedium of coursework when the content of the communication from and between your schoolmates drastically shifts gears.

During the year, e-mails are circulated from compassionate classmates who are kind enough to provide advice for upcoming exams or hints at how to arrive at the solutions to finance cases. The standard e-mails include ideas as to what would be the best positioning for a new product concept in marketing or good websites in which to find information for upcoming research papers.  

And then, as suddenly as the first year of the MBA ended- the communication between the students shifted as well. I opened my inbox to find emails from the same familiar people with the same guiding tones, but the type of advice was significantly altered.

In the case of Friday’s e-mails, the advice being circulated was regarding the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. A large group of us decided to partake in the celebrations and were preparing for the yearly festival when the wise-worded reminders began popping up cautioning and advising…

 “Should you have the misfortune to fall or trip up, stay down hugging the ground without moving except to cover your head with your hands. When the stampede has passed, someone will give up a tap on the shoulder to let you know you can get up in safety. Don't try to run behind the bulls. Don't attempt to touch the bulls. A lot of people seem to want to touch the bulls for some strange reason. They shouldn’t be touched even in the slightest way, as there is another potential risk in distracting their attention. Don't stand still during the run. When everyone starts running, you must run too.

If you want to be a spectator, stay on the other side of the fence. The only reason you cross over that fence is to run. Fan out when you run into the ring. Spread out when you get through the entrance to the ring and head for the barriers round the edge of the ring. Should you find yourself in the middle of the ring, you are in the path of the bulls who can move much faster than you, you are in a totally defenseless situation, as well as being a disturbance to the drovers in their work. Don't disturb the drovers and herders. These people are responsible for getting the bulls into the bullpen as quickly as possible. The quicker they do it, the less danger there is. Don't carry anything on you when you run. If you can’t find a safe place to leave your pack, video camera or whatever, then just forget about the idea of doing the run."

 And so on and so forth…

Gotta love friendly advice from classmates.

 I suppose kindness and concern can translate from class to the bullring after all.

Another major realization- and one of the saddest ones this year to date is that I have aged considerably. The words, “I think I’m getting too old for this stuff” actually came out of my mouth. I never thought they would- I never thought I would be one of those people who “gets too old” for things.

But at about four in the morning, stumbling around the city strewn with passed out partygoers and mounds of trash, noting the ubiquitous drunkards sprawled across any green patch of land they could find, covered in wine and bodily fluids, snoring and shivering- I realized I was not a part of it. I was wearing the typical white and red- I was drinking- I was being festive- I was happy to be there and I was dancing- but I wasn't really part of it.

Maybe I was too sober. Maybe I was too sane.

Or maybe, as I think I finally realized, I have just grown up too much to savor drunken stupors and citywide slumber parties. San Fermin- the running of the bulls, is no more a cultural festival than full moon parties at Koh Phangan in Thailand (another party I am not so sure I could ever take again). I don't think that the event, the encierro, is any longer like what Hemingway described in “The Sun Also Rises." It's more of a bunch of English speaking tourists (Americans, Brits, Australians)- and a few other cultures thrown in, even some Spaniards- who all made the pilgrimage to the region of Navarra (my pilgrimage being a 6 hour bus ride)- to get drunk and risk being gored by the horns of a mistreated bull. The beautiful and well-kempt city had become a dump- a literal dump.

At least there was uniformity in the clothing. And I did have fun. The fireworks were great. But I really am too old for this stuff- regardless of how much beer I consume before, during and after…I think I’ve crossed over the barrier from festival-goer to resort-guest. Or at least somewhere in between.

Nonetheless, I’m glad I went. Afterall, it was just another experience indicative of my short stint in Spain, getting to know- even better and on different levels- all the people that are sharing this MBA experience with me. Glad I did it. But glad it’s over.

I think that may be the end of festivals for me. To quote (in my own context of course) the man who made the Running of the Bulls famous,"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch." 
-Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Paella Plague

I spent the summer of 1996 living with a family in Barbate, Andalucía- one of the southernmost cities in Spain. It was an unforgettable summer- a summer that changed me.

There are a limited number of specifics I remember about the experience. Due to all the years that have passed between then and now- I maintain this hazy comprehensive memory that encompasses the experience.

I remember the narrow cement streets smelling of musky sea air. I remember that on clear nights, we could see Morocco from the shore. I remember watching my first bullfight and the absolute mortification I felt after the disturbing incident, I remember the fear of being an ocean away from my mom. I remember going to my first topless beach and the feeling of freedom that accompanied this so-called liberation of modesty- I also remember my first nude beach and then quickly walking over the hill back to the topless section. I remember learning how to dance the Sevillana, I remember having a crush on a local who took me for ice cream and cerveza. I remember long nights around bonfires, drinking Mangaroca and listening to my friends play Spanish guitar. I remember how the tears welled in my eyes the morning I woke up to leave- before the sun had risen- and all I felt was emptiness because I knew a part of me would be left in this tiny town on the tip of Spain. All these memories- both distant yet vivid- are part of the reason I am back here today. 

But of course, there is no pleasure without pain. There’s no free lunch. And it was exactly that important meal- Lunch- that almost killed it for me.

It’s easy to glorify our memories- to wipe out the parts that made us hurt. That’s the good thing about remembering- is that our minds have this fantastic way of making everything pleasant...No dark. My Spanish exchange experience however, as incredible as it was, still bears its thorns in my mind. I.e. Lunchtime. 

Whether I was rolling in from a day at the beach with my friends, or coming home from class or a weekend excursion, my stomach would plunge and my heart would start thrashing around in my chest as I entered the house and smelled lunch.

I’ve been a vegetarian since I was three, therefore explaining that “no, I cannot eat that” has never presented itself as a problem. Explaining in Spanish that, “no, no puedo comer esto” was a little more difficult- but attempting to explain why I couldn't eat ANYTHING that the homestay family had spent days fishing for and preparing for me was altogether another story- It was a never-ending story. 

Each meal was a battle. Each day was a little crusade:

I would slip my key into the door, enter into the fragrant household, greet the children who had been helping their mother all morning in the kitchen, slowly put my things down in my room and dress at a deliberately unhurried pace in order to delay the battle laid out in front of me.

When I knew I could delay no longer, I would walk into the dining area and inevitably find before me an extravagant feast of fish, sea creatures, snails, navahas, paella, unidentifiable objects that had surely come from the depths of the ocean; you name it, they caught it and cooked it.

The mother would be standing at the entrance bearing a platter of god-knows-what, and right behind her, the man of the house would strut in, smiling from ear to ear- proud of what he had spent the last week hunting and gathering from dawn until dusk on his little rusty dingy. 

And each day, I would sit down, scan the table, and resign myself to the fact that no, no puedo comer anything on the table- save the bread bowl.

The eldest of the children would then take my plate and with the serving spoons, gesture to each dish with a question mark on her face asking me “Morgana, puedes comer esto?” “No, lo siento.” “Pero, seguramente puedes comer esto!” “No, lo siento.”

And then the rest of the children would chime in, and if I were lucky- aunts and uncles and friends would be present too. 

The room would burst into noise with questions and explanations of how a certain fish has no endocrine system or definitions of vegetarianism. In the end, after making sure to offend just about everyone involved, I would skulk back to my room for my afternoon siesta- hungry and disheartened.

Lunch proceeded similarly every afternoon that summer without fail. By the end, I was served an abundance of tortilla española, always accompanied with a remark about the minimal difference between the moral aspects of consuming eggs and fish. 

The day I left to catch the flight back home, not only was my stomach empty, but my heart was too. However, the family I lived with never called me again. We lost touch. More likely, they “lost” touch. I don't even now, after all this time, want to imagine how offensive and impolite it must have been to them that I refused to eat even the miniature fried sardines that would show up next to my napkin staring up at me, eyes intact- in a little bowl all to themselves.

I bring this up because as with all traumatizing experiences, the “Barbate lunch” memory resurfaced again this weekend.

A few friends and I took advantage of our three-day weekend and drove down the white coast of Spain. We ended up at my friend’s friend’s parents charming seaside house in Alicante. All was going well- dinner at a local cerveseria complete with home-grown (vegetarian) delicacies, Spanish beer and good wine. We went home that evening full, happy and tired from the long drive and four hours of animated dinner conversation.

I woke up on Sunday morning to the sound of the sea outside my window and an amazing (yet eerily familiar) smell wafting down from the kitchen.

I walked upstairs to greet the family and meet the guests they had invited for lunch. Low and behold, there was a massive paella simmering away- an event in and of itself- with the guests crowded around the pan as if it were a living breathing endangered species. 

My heart started racing just as it did during those minutes before lunch was served back in Barbate. I pulled the chef aside and in my best Español, explained that it looked wonderful but I cannot eat it. “Porque no?” was the response I got, as she smiled and walked away to tend to the work of art I was expected to consume. 

As lunchtime got closer and closer, I desperately searched the kitchen for some sign of a salad- bread- vegetables- anything I could eat so as not to offend our hosts. I happened to notice, out of the corner of my eye, a colorful plate of sautéed chickpeas, peppers and onions. As the sigh of relief escaped my lips, someone walked over to the platter, grabbed my beloved veggies, and before I knew it- dumped everything into the crackling and steaming paella. No, not again, I thought. 

My mind was racing for excuses. I couldn't simply explain that I am a vegetarian. I did that at dinner. It doesn't work here in Spain. There is no such thing.

So what did I do??? I drank about a bottle of wine for my breakfast, sat down at lunch, and ate the damn paella.

I was drunk. Lunch was amazing. And that was the end of that.

Un Violinista en Tu Tejado

John Lennon famously stated, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” I unquestionably agree. However, I had a thought today- an extension of Mr. Lennon's contemplation…that being that our best memories are made when we’re too busy living them. I know this is no novel idea. I’ve had the thought hundreds of times, and I know plenty of other people who probably have as well. But last weekend, also known as the weekend before finals, the weekend where no one saw the light of day, or more appropriately; “the weekend of hell,” something struck me reminding me to appreciate even the infernal undertaking of exams. This something made me take a step back and stop mulling over what I miss about my past. 

It made me stop thinking about what my current life should be as opposed to what it is. It all started with a song:

As part of our final evaluations and grades, we had marketing presentations. For the past two terms, we have been working towards a marketing project in which we took a generic product and each week, developed it- working from market research and segmentation, to distribution channels, branding and finally a comprehensive marketing plan. As part of the culmination of the past six months, we presented our full projects to the class and our professors. Each member of each group was individually working day and night on this project. 

My roommate’s boyfriend happened to be at my apartment working on his. 

For the soundtrack of his presentation, he chose a song by a Spanish artist I had never heard of. 

For three days straight, whether I was cooking, studying or showering, I heard this song echoing through the halls of my home. I liked the song, it was one of those songs that strikes you and you’re not sure what it makes you feel or how it reminds you of something particular - but it has the distinct effect on you only music has a way of doing. Unfortunately, I was sick of the song by day two, as the repetition only added to my frustration of incessant studying and lack of sunlight exposure. And honestly, I wanted to wring his neck. 

Now however, a few days later, left with only a few mental scars and dissonant worry, I can’t stop listening to the song. I’m pleased to have found something that makes me feel lucky to be in Spain- some part of this foreign culture that I connect with.

Yet the best part is, I know that I will hear the song again two years from now and remember the study weekend where we were ALL suffering, buried deep in corporate finance and marketing strategy. 

And then five years from now- I will hear the song and the details of the weekend will have all but dissolved, but I’ll remember my roommate and her boyfriend, in my apartment, and the little family we formed in and out of school. 

And ten years from now, I’ll hear the song and it will remind me of the MBA. It will remind me of Barcelona. It will be the memory that was made while I was on the verge of tears at the hands of calculators and notes that made no sense. 

But it's a good memory. It's something rare that I’m living now, that I’ve never lived before and I will never live again. These are the memories- the incredible memories I am making as I’m busy living them. 

That's what I mean by that. So much for short explanations…

So beyond this song that I am now unquestionably attached to- the song that will forever be known to me as Antonio’s aggravating marketing presentation song- and the weekends of hell that we underwent while cramming for finals, I know that I’ll find this song one day in my future to serve the purpose of reminding me of my past. 

As for the present- I am pleased to say that exams are over, term-two has ended and term-three has officially begun. (So much for a break). I can’t say I aced everything, but I believe that I did enough to pass. I took an hour out of International Tax Law studying to read and re-read the rules and regulations of the MBA program. Actually, I didn't just read them- I dissected them and reevaluated them and did about 1000 different interpretations just to make sure that I’m safe. The time spent calculating the odds of being booted from the MBA probably would have been better utilized had I read just one more chapter of one more book- but by day six, we all go a little crazy…and I’m pleased to announce that failing an exam does not necessarily result in expulsion. So the fates of corporate finance can stop breathing down my neck because as Gwen Stefani sang, “I know we're cool.” 

Finally, speaking of cool, this came out last week:

http://www.businessweek.com/globalbiz/content/mar2009/gb20090313_186197.htm

Needless to say, the article was due the morning of my corporate finance exam. I spent the night oscillating between net present values and language, fighting this enormous internal battle regarding my priorities. Oh, the irony.

Please enjoy the article. More importantly, enjoy the song. I know I will…for years and years.

Gazpacho and Gaudí

Clearly, I don’t have the slightest bit of free time to explore Barca. This will change, I am assured. However, this sad fact implies that the continuation of my “things I love about Barcelona” list is on hold for the time being.

Deep Breath.

This doesn’t mean that the lists have to stop. Not at all actually- only the subject matter will incur a small alteration. But I'm an MBA student- a veritable chameleon- I can attack any problem from any angle- I can do this! 

So...below is an inventory of the small pleasures- the tiniest of details that make me smile- or make my heart skip a beat in my day to day life. Because for someone like me, its always been about the small things. 

First off, I want to mention that the Christmas lights are up and alight throughout the streets of Barcelona. Christmas lights make the world a more joyous place (despite the waste of energy, light pollution, complete disregard for the fact that Thanksgiving comes first, and oh yeah- I’m a Jew. (But when has that ever stopped me from eating too much santa-shaped chocolates and buying Christmas trees?)

So, without further ado, here are the small delights I’ve come to hold dear:

-Eating tangerines in class and smelling them on my hands throughout the day (even though my laptop keyboard is perpetually sticky)

-Reading the paragraph long synopses on the left hand side of the front page of the Financial Times every morning and then pretending like I actually know what’s going on in the world

-Listening to Hotel Costes, Vol. 9 ~ Stéphane Pompougnac on my trek home from school between bus 63 and the blue metro line

-Continuing my perpetual search for a comforter cover that doesn’t have bizarre patterns or inappropriate color schemes (its been three months now)

-Walking innocently along the street, glancing up, and remaining astonished by the fact that I am standing next to one of many Gaudi buildings that tourists flock to from the world over

-Weekends in Italy

-Face bubbles on BBM (if you don’t know, don’t ask)

-Skype dates with friends I thought had forgotten me

-Overdoing the pan con tomate and Rioja with friends at Cervezeria Catalunia after 16 hour school days

-Planning extravagant weekend trips…whether they actually happen or not is irrelevant- it’s the prep (the fantasy) that counts. Isn’t it always the fantasy that matters most?

-Arriving at the bus stop as the bus is arriving (as opposed to arriving as its pulling away- which is the case 95% of the time)

-When something is presented in class and I realize I actually enjoy the subject matter. Moreover, when something is presented in class and I have an intelligible opinion I can share with my classmates

-Drinking store-bought gazpacho straight out of the carton while standing barefoot in the kitchen

-Deleting any number of the manifold “mbacareerservices” emails without reading them (although I don’t recommend this as I’ve had quite a few close calls regarding workshops and speaking events), it’s a great stress reliever. Particularly the ones with the “urgent” notification attached. Totally liberating

-Discovering hidden corners concealed within the packed hallways and floors of school between classes in which I can exist in my own world- nothing like the reality of what I am living

As a final note: Barcelona has gotten cold. They didn't mention that in the brochure!

It was practically arctic in my apartment this morning...I woke up shaking and blue. Thus, I overshot my target and showed up to school in five layers of clothing (including waffled long underwear- yes bottom and top), uggs with fur peeking out around my calves, gloves, and coat. I haven’t stopped sweating since I ran after the bus this morning. 

ESADE, Estoy Aqui.

Day two. It’s 8:00 am and I’m on the bus to Cardona for two days- a “LEAD” seminar; a team-building expedition, leadership fostering and “get to know you” experience for the 118 students in my MBA class, representing at least 33 countries. 

“Orientation Week” has begun…yesterday was exhausting- and invigorating. 

We were repeatedly told to “Have a plan. Be prepared. Know what you want otherwise the opportunities here will pass you by.”

Right. 

Isn’t that WHY I am here? To figure it all out?

I’m a little overwhelmed- a lot overwhelmed- but nothing I can’t handle. We stood up and introduced ourselves yesterday. 

“I’m Morgan. BA in Literature.” Well, THAT didn’t sound right. 

The words came spilling out of my mouth and into a room filled with smart, qualified, worldly, engaging, extraordinary people. No other Lit majors, needless to say. 10 hours of introductions, of lectures, advice, information- of “who are you?”s, “what do you do?”s, “what do you want to do?”s, “why are you here?”s, and the like.

The decisions have already begun; do we tell the truth? Do we admit that we are only now figuring out who we are? What we want? 

Do we admit that only a tiny piece of the puzzle is in place?

“When I grow up….”

IF I grow up.

And then there are the select few around me who have grown up. Completely. Who know exactly what they want and are here to do nothing but achieve that.

Yesterday was long. My head was spinning and the names and faces of the classmates I met were running through my mind at a marathon pace. Yesterday was a marathon. Today is a marathon, tomorrow, next week, next month, the next year and a half. It will all be a marathon.

And then they told us; “You are now ESADE students. You are part of one of the best business schools in the world. Each of you helps to comprise a multi-national, multi-cultural class of remarkable students. Get ready. Work hard. Welcome.” (or something like that…)

Either way…ESADE, estoy aqui...

The Good, The Bad...THE BARCA

According to my “loyal readers” (aka: the friends of mine who tend to cane me when I write anything they don’t like- or don't understand), I’m being too philosophical about this experience and lacking in the details specific to the initial part of my time here. After all, I AM in Barcelona and not doing some typical MBA in Philly or Boston…(not that there’s anything wrong with Penn, it’s just not my thang.)

Being that I have only been here two weeks…I’m going to simplify this and then, hopefully one day, I’ll be far more equipped to justify my haughty “this is one of the best cities in the world” statement. 

Things I love about BCN;

-Pimientos de Padrón

-Siestas (even though I don’t take them- it’s the concept that gets me every time)

-Cava

-The fact that being 10 minutes late to everything really means that I’m about 20 minutes early.

-The proximity to some of the most beautiful cities and beaches in the world

-That I can get home when the sun has already risen and I’m far from being the only one

-The nightlife. Ah, the nightlife….

-That Bush isn’t President here

-The ease with which I am able to navigate the public transportation

-The fact that I can see the mountains from the sea, and vice-versa

-Tortilla Española

-Dinner at midnight

-Being in the minority as a tall blonde (or so I like to tell myself)

-The music

-The plazas (yes, all of them)

-Cortados

-Getting to the beach at 5:00 p.m. and still having over three hours of sunlight

-The diversity of my classmates

-Antoni Gaudí

-The weather (Barca, seriously, has to have the best climate in the world. No joke)

-Rioja

-The abundance of beautiful people

-Market juice

-Manchego

-The noise

-But most of all- I love the fact that I can’t even begin to imagine how long this list is going to be- that this is just the beginning- that it can only get better from here…

Things I don’t like so much (you knew there had to be a few…);

-The Euro-Dollar exchange rate (although anything is better than the British Pound)

-Trying to figure out where the accents and ñ’s are on my laptop

-Not having enough hours in a day, days in a week, weeks in a month, and so on…

-Imperfecto vs. Indefinido

-Flat hunting (apartment searching) and the incompetent agencies/agents who seem to make all our lives far more complicated than need be

-The astonishing lack of bartenders capable of making a dirty martini 

-9:00 a.m. classes (and knowing that the hard stuff hasn’t even begun yet)

-The abundance of tourists (even though its August and I haven’t yet seen the half of it) And no- I’m not a tourist. Anywhere…

"Everything in Moderation"

I have finally found an hour to sit down and write- (which was no easy feat), but all I come up with are jumbled thoughts…good thoughts, but nonsensical. No conclusions or profound explanations. Nothing of the sort…so much to say but nothing to write.

It’s probably a result of the excessive excess of everything here in Barcelona. The going without stopping- the constant lack of moderation…the gluttonous surplus of all that is good in life. Or in my opinion, all that is good. 

I’ve spent a large portion of my years- at least the years in which I have been writing…trying to make sense of my existence, to define it- and then to put it into words. Right now- to put it bluntly- I don’t have the words. I can’t seem find them.

I had forgotten what it feels like to be so overwhelmed that you stop ticking things off the list and just do them…or do as much of them as you can. My lists have gone out the window, I don’t bother making specific plans because I know I will only make it to an eighth of what I have arranged, and I stopped trying to think about circumstances- and just live them.

Before I left for Barca- the night before- I grabbed the volume of my journals from 1999- and read and re-read the entries from the days before I left to begin my undergraduate degree. From the moment I started scanning the yellowed pages, I immediately realized that I was younger, I was more ignorant, more inexperienced, and more idealistic- but essentially the same person. I went off to university hoping to find a life in DC equipped with everything that I had lacked up until then. I wanted to find those who appreciated and loved me, I wanted to learn, to find my passions, to define my passions, and to live a life where I stopped having to think about being happy….I just wanted to feel it. 

I wanted to find myself. 

There was a point when I thought I could simply discard the flaws that made up who I was and morph into someone I wanted to be but had never been. Talk about innocence… Needless to say, that never happened. I got to GW and I was exactly who I had always been…and I thought about being happy, instead of just being happy. I did things I didn’t necessarily want to do, but because I thought that’s what I should be doing. I was busy- very busy being someone I didn’t want to be, in a place I didn’t want to be in. But it was a part of my life- and it made me who I am now- as did all the other good and bad things I’ve gone through.

Now- since I’m all about drawing parallels lately- I look at the way I have approached this experience, as opposed to how I felt en route to DC…and the similarities are uncanny. Possibly it’s always wanting more- or wanting the best- or wanting the most- but I threw myself into this life here in Spain just as I threw myself into DC. I came here, packed with my flaws and defects- bearing the burden of my mistakes and downfalls- but ready to do it all again….and similarly, I’m overwhelmed- I don’t know where to start and worse, when to end…and even if I figured that out, I don’t think I could stop- would stop. I’m not stopping until it’s over.

I came to Spain, as I went to DC, open to everything new but with my previous life hanging over my shoulder…reminding me of my weaknesses and how not to falter. I have not come to Spain this time around to find myself. I know exactly who I am…for the most part. So this time, I know what I want. I go for it- I get it…and now I have to learn to moderate. 

So finding the time to sit down and write- well, I found a bit of that. Taking the time to stop for a second…to relax, to find the words to define whatever this is- that’s the challenge. To learn the definition of moderation…speaking of flaws.

Estamos en España...

When you prepare for something for so long, it always seems a bit like an illusion. Moving to Spain- for me- was an illusion- it still is. There are moments, a few times a day, when I stop myself in the middle of the street, or mid-way through a glass of Cava and look around in shock. I stop, I take a deep breath, and I almost have to remind myself that I live here. 

I live in Barcelona. 

There are things in this life that we plan and confidently believe will come to pass. And then there are those things that are so incredible- that until they happen, we choose not to fully believe them for fear of being disappointed. 

I had always dreamed of living in Barcelona, of doing my MBA, of absolute freedom and of a new journey smack in the middle of my current one- because after all, life is one big ride. 

What I generally find is that when these “preparations” actually do come to pass- they are not as grand- or as spectacular as we had once hoped, or expected.

Being here now though, is even better than I ever could have imagined- and that surprises me. I was scared that my life has been too big- that coming here wouldn’t compare to what I’ve had…or wouldn’t live up to the standard I have set for myself. 

Yet, I have only been here a week- so I may be getting ahead of myself- but I honestly think that I got exactly what I wanted…which is pretty damn rare.

I’m still incredulous at the fact that I am here- that I live here- that it’s 9:00 p.m. and I haven’t even begun to get ready for dinner- but I’m not stressed- and no one is counting on me to be ready anytime soon.

Estamos en España. 

But what’s the most shocking to me, is what I feel when I walk down the street- how I feel when I am sitting at a café, ordering tapas, on the metro, drinking four cortados a day, searching for fresh produce on the market, sidestepping the shady charcters on Las Ramblas, even sitting in class for the first time in five years….it’s sheer joy. Like I said- it’s all part of the ride- a massive detour from my original path that has now BECOME my journey. 

Barcelona, a week in, is already home. 

Now all I have to do is find an apartment….

Spain- take 2...

Two days in Barcelona- and it feels like a year. A good year.

Three nights ago I was flying in- (of course after paying an exorbitant amount in extra luggage)- and staring wide-eyed at the city below me as the plane began its decent.

There was a part of me- a nagging thought in the back of my mind- that thought, “no. not again.. I don’t want to do this again.” After a while, the moving “thing” gets tiring. 

Exhausting, in fact. Eventually, the novelty wears off and the despondency sets in. In most cases, I’ve left someplace I’ve loved- and with that, the people I’ve loved. And regardless of how fantastic the new city is- it is still that- a new city; with unfamiliar streets, new faces, an alien language, and many tasks to complete. Starting from zero. 

As I was going through this list in my head- preparing myself for worst-case scenarios- the mishaps I have experienced time and time again…something else came to mind.

I glanced out over the lights of the city- the coast line- the 11 pm traffic- and a memory came to mind. Its actually funny I didn’t think of this before- considering the parallel… but here it is; I was 15 years old. It was the summer before my Sophomore year of high school and there I was- in a plane- different airline, same hour- flying in darkness over Spain. If I am not mistaken, I landed in Seville- before I was transferred to Barbate where my mother had arranged for me to live with a family for a few months. I remember I was terrified. My friends were all going to summer camp or on teen tours with their best friends. My mother, on the other hand, put a crisp passport into my hands and through my tears- told me I would appreciate this opportunity later in life- 

and appreciate it, I do. 

But back then- well, that was a different story. I remember showing up in this tiny fishing village- being served a bowl of cold snails swimming in tepid water- and trying to convince my homestay family about my vegetarianism SO unsuccessfully that my mother got a call from the program the next day regarding my supposed anorexia. It was then that I realized what a problem this language-barrier thing really was. 

Needless to say- we got it all cleared up- I learned Spanish and was fed Tortilla Espanola for every meal until the end of the summer. 

Now, over a decade later, here I am in an apartment in Barcelona- having just eaten Tortilla Espanola at the tapas bar down the street- ready to begin another life-altering phase of my life.

It was that summer in Spain that began this whole “international” thing. It opened me up to everything America is not. I would like to think that it was that experience that set me on the path that lead me to where I am now…right back to where it all started.