Sex and a Different City

I may be far from NY and the life I once had there. My Barcelona experience doesn't even resemble the fast-paced, illuminated, energy ridden concrete jungle of a life I had in NY. However, there are a few flashes- a few slight reminders of what it was like- and then there are a number things that are nothing like New York, but more reminiscent of the relationships formed by sharing experiences in “the very heart of it,” as Sinatra once sang.

I’d like to think that NY managed to leave a bit of its vigor inside of me- and that I, in turn, managed to transport a bit of that to Spain.

Here’s the scene;

My best friend here in Barcelona, my partner in crime- the one person I have found that shares her desire to learn with her desire to “live” in the same manner I have chosen- lost her father a few years ago. It’s not my place to say how, or relay any details about her or her father- but that’s immaterial when it comes to friendships. I never met her father, although I wish now that I had. All the same, being that we are all far away from our families and our former friends who were there for us when times got rough, it is an assumed duty to hold the hands of the ones we have grown to love- to be their rocks when there are no other rocks around.

We had spoken about the anniversary of her father’s death in passing. I remembered that she mentioned she would find a church, although not the most religious of individuals, and light a candle in remembrance and honor of her dad. Again, in passing, I mentioned that I would go with her- because I love her...because even if she would never admit it, in all her strength and all her restraint, I think she needed me.

The day came, a typical rainy Sunday when we met for a juice and the gym before studying for upcoming exams. We spent close to three hours together, talking about school, the weekend plans, people, and pretty much everything except for the personal significance of the date- a date that if there were anything in my power to do, I would go back five years and erase. However, my friend didn't say a word. Like I said, this one tends to be cautious with her emotions at times.

Anyways, totally unsuspecting and being a regrettably forgetful friend, I said goodbye, promising to see my friend in the taxi on the way to class the following morning, and walked away. As I turned the key in the door to my apartment, it hit me: My closest friend’s father passed away five years ago today. The blood drained from my face and my heart started pounding, not only disappointed at my absentmindedness, but only beginning to understand the hurt my friend was feeling at that very moment. I frantically called and texted, finally getting through when she told me that she had “found a church, thank you for remembering, I’m fine, don't worry, and I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone feeling completely helpless. I sat down and began thinking about what I could do later to ease whatever it was she was feeling- knowing all the while that whatever I did, I could never begin to take away her grief. Ideas tore through my mind, dinner? Flowers? Spa day? - I was at a loss.

And then I thought about it. I tried, although I know I could never truly grasp the enormity of her loss, to put myself in her position. And the only thing that would have provided me with any sort of comfort would have been simply- to know that I was not alone.

I rapidly scrambled around my room for a sweater to throw over my sweaty gym clothes and I ran out the door.

A church. 

Where the hell was she? 

What church?

  

I didn't know where to start but I was on a mission. Looking back now, I probably came across as a pious religious maniac- weaving in and out of the streets of my neighborhood- Exiample- asking anyone I ran into, “Iglesia?” “Sabes donde estan las iglesias?”

I was sweating- running- staring at my phone to see if my friend had picked up my inquisitive messages- and ducking in and out of the churches I had never stopped to notice before. It was probably the fourth or fifth cathedral I found when I threw myself into the wide stone entrance, eyes searching amongst the congregation with their heads all bowed in unison, listening to the Catalan sermon. I scanned the worshippers, listening to the rain pounding on stained glass windows and candles flickering off the intricate frescoes telling biblical tales I recognized only from hundreds of art history classes. Finally, I spotted the back of her head with her familiar pink coat resting across her back. 

I ran up the aisle and slid into the pew. I looked at her- her face completely calm but her eyes moist with the few tears I’ve ever seen her come close to shedding. I set my bag down on the ground, grabbed her hand, and definitively told her “I’m here.”

We sat there in silence, hand in hand, with individual thoughts running through our minds. I don't know how long we were there for but I know I would have stayed all night, unmoving. I bowed my head and thought of my friend, and her father- I thought of so many things- loss and love and friendship, family and life. I will never know what she was thinking, but I’m pretty sure I have a good idea. The only thing that mattered what that I had found her- that I wasn't too late- and that she understood that I would always be there- to be her rock whenever she may need one (whether she tells me or not).

After some time, we walked out of the church together and my friend turned to me, hugged me, and said, “That was sooo Carey of you. Now go home and write about it.” 

Now, that was better than any sort of response or sentiment she could have communicated. Soooo “New York”- a language only a few people know and recognize- a shared comprehension that bonds us even tighter than being scrubbed by two fat naked Turkish women on the dirty tiles of a steamy Hammam in Istanbul. Now that's something.

That day, sitting in the darkened church only beginning to comprehend the depths of my friend, I knew we were in the midst of creating a bond slightly stronger than before- stemming from much more than just the amusing mutual acknowledgement- that even after a year in Catalunia, we both have a little Manhattan left in us.

Equilibriums (no, not the Nash variety)

I was doing some reading for my operations management and innovation course. It was the basic stuff; creation of value, future of change and innovation- all very interesting and then I came upon something that hit home- as usual, I totally lost my train of thought- went on a mentally masturbative tangent with myself- and here I am writing about it.

Basically, the text explained that within organizations, survival implies knowing how to balance exploration and exploitation efforts. Either way, there are periods where organizations focus on either one or the other. The Greeks introduced the concept of “Enantiodromia,” also referred to as the Pendulum effect- indicating that systems often react disproportionately in search for different equilibriums. The key, as far as I can tell from what I read before I totally drifted, is finding a balance. Now, there’s a new concept. 

Balance: Something I have struggled with my entire life. 

I’ve always found that I have a problem with equilibrium. Not in my ears- but in my life. For me, there is very little grey- a lot of black, a lot of whites, but no gray. A lot of dark accompanied by a lot of light- very low lows and excessive highs. In some masochistic way, I kind of like it that way.

The way my daily life is structured is indicative of this masochistic behavior. 

During the weeks, I sit in class struggling with alien concepts and I sit awake at night reading supporting material over and over until theories and models and engrained in my psyche. 

I wake up at ungodly hours and trudge to classes, back aching from being weighed down by books and a computer with a hard drive filled with presentations, papers and excel spreadsheets. I go to the gym and spend hours sweating and suffering with highlighters in hand reading the cases that I will most definitely have to have down by the following morning. I eat like a freaking rabbit- no sugar, no carbs- only vegetables, fat free yogurt, fruit, nuts and all that other stuff I used to turn my nose up at until I realized that I am no longer a teenager with a metabolism working at the speed of light. 

I work, I sweat, I suffer. But don't pity myself- because here comes the good part;

On the weekends, in my typical fashion- I close the books, I hide away the computer- I drop my oversized school bag at the door and thrust my oversized sunglasses onto my face. I do whatever the hell I want to do. 

I travel. I spend my time in Italy strolling the piazzas amongst some of my favorite people in the world, I go to long dinners where all I hear is the clanking of wine glasses and Italian words and phrases dancing in my head like music. I celebrate life the best way I know how- spoiling myself with the indulgences- tangible, intangible- that I have become apt at seeking out. When I return to school on Mondays- after the Sunday evening “fear” has passed, I’m never fully satiated, but I never have any regrets- and that's the most important part. 

With these dualities- seeing the light and feeling the dark- I’d like to believe that I have the ability to identify the two sides and pit them against one another- finding my own brand of “gray”- my own variety of “middle ground”- the only sort of equilibrium my mind is capable of accepting.

Therefore, as my thoughts floated away from innovation management strategic frameworks and the like, I had a few ideas about the exploration and exploitation efforts in my own life.

Of course, understanding the “international” aspects of an International MBA is a continual process. I am a strong advocate of the fact that the goods far outweigh the bads in this experience- but I’d be lying if I were to claim that it is all rainbows and butterflies. The “exploration” part that I love the most is exactly what I came here for- the opportunity to delve into diversity; understanding and learning from the differences in cultures, languages and experiences of a multinational student body and faculty. As my roommate once mentioned, “Doing an international MBA has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my life regardless of whether my strategy implementation professor has an accent or not. At a top international business school, you have the privilege of learning from the best talent from around the world.” What tops that, right?

But then- as I mentioned- there are the pitfalls as well. There is no better way to say this than to quote my friend as she turned to me during one of our classes where our professor was explaining something I had a hard time following, and with raised eyebrows and a half-smirk ironically asked, “is he practicing his English on us?”

I had to laugh. But for 60,000 Euros- maybe I should cry. I mean, come on.

Then, my thoughts moved out of the exploration/exploitation argument- and I found myself focusing solely on one of the themes that underlies my existence- the good and the bad- and searching for the good within the bad- after all, as humans, sometimes that's what we have to do to pull ourselves through the calamities that underline our lives. 

So on a lighter note- but not forgetting the biggest calamity that has touched everyone on this earth- the economic crisis, I don't think its necessary to highlight the “bad”:

It’s right in front of all of us. And for MBA students, the “bad” may even be a bit more saturated with questions with no concrete answers. Every single day someone wonders out loud a myriad of unknowns, such as; how will I pay off my loans? What will the job market look like when we graduate? Will my current skills be applicable? Will I ever find an internship? Will this investment really be worth it? And so on and so forth…

But then again, the crisis has presented at least one advantage:

Window shopping (the only shopping I’m doing lately) today clearly indicated that I cant afford to buy the new Gucci shoes that came out this season, regardless of how obsessed I am with them. However, this sad fact provides less of an opportunity to fall from 5 inches above ground and break an ankle. (Avoiding a fair amount of embarrassment as well). Speaking of, I think Jimmy, Muccia, Tom, all the Christian's, Giorgio, and gang forgot to read the FT this year- maybe someone should send the entire fashion industry a memo.

That's pretty much it for the day- back to operations reading…after all, I am at least attempting to do the balancing “thing” here.

Byzantium Bliss

Turkey came and Turkey went. It flew by- like all things in life too good to last. And now, back in Barcelona, once again absorbed in our roles as diligent students between classes and group meetings, the images and sounds of Turkey seem too remote to be real.  

It was one of those trips that you plan to a tee- that you anticipate- that you know will be fantastic- but the reality of it far exceeds any expectations. 

It was one of those trips where all the plans and all the preparations are edged out by unanticipated surprises far too astounding to have been intended or imagined in the first place.

  

Turkey was one of those trips where you step off the plane and your plans go out the window. It was one of those trips where your world changes colors.

We headed east not only to escape Barcelona, the MBA, and any hint of the lives we have been living- but we headed east in order to discover something fresh and unknown to our curious minds. Moreover- we left in order to discover something we could never learn within the walls of our school.

We threw ourselves directly into whatever the country- the dividing point between Europe and Asia- had to offer. We entered with no preconceptions, no fears, no expectations- only the desire to explore fueled by the longing to learn.

We new immediately that we had found what we were looking for and were instantaneously welcomed by the glistening turquoise waters of the Bosphorus, lapping at the shores surrounding the chaos of bazaars, hammams and hundreds of domed mosques. 

We snaked in and out of alleyways, over the Galata bridge spanning the Golden Horn, crawling up and down the crowded lanes reminiscent of San Francisco’s hills. We roamed the unfamiliar stretches of road and hidden alleyways and found far more than just the sprawling parks, astonishingly impressive domed mosques ranging from the Ayasofya and Blue Mosque, and bustling bazaars- we found what we were looking for...

We read the history of the Byzantines and Ottomans over Nargile pipes with their burning coals lighting our faces. We spent an afternoon in Istanbul’s oldest Hammam and later, toasted Martini’s overlooking the city, radiant under a full orange moon.

Istanbul is exquisite. We never oriented ourselves- we never wanted to. We practiced our Turkish “thank you”s and “ok”s and had our fortunes read from the grinds of our coffee in the ubiquitous cafes full of smoke and sound. We strolled without stopping, getting lost within the steep alleyways, bright elaborate graffiti and ornate mosaics lining the walls and ceilings we encountered. We stuffed ourselves with Baklava sprinkled with bright green pistachio grounds drowning in honey and drank apple tea in the traditional teahouses.

And then Istanbul was over and we headed to the airport for our plane to Bodrum.

We flew south in silence as images of the minarets rising above the intricate structures and their daily prayer calls still rang in our ears and haunted our thoughts. We were picked up from the airport only to learn that due to the rain, we would be spending the night in a little hotel on the Marina. 

The sudden switch from cosmopolitan bustle to the calm of the Aegean Sea and harbor lined with wooden boats with their sails swaying with the wind and the rain was both a welcome change and a challenge. A challenge because we had fallen in love with Istanbul- a pleasure because our next adventure had begun.

It has been said that the best-laid plans often go awry. Therefore, when we realized that a miscommunication between the concierge and my poor early-morning translation of TurkEnglish resulted in the missing of our boat the following morning, we weren’t the least bit surprised. We took everything, as we did with Istanbul, as it came. We were driven along the coast by the apologetic hotel owner and sympathetic tour operator towards the boat that we never ended up catching.

The drive itself was breathtaking- we stared out the windows of the car astonished by the contrasts of the deep blue of the see with small islands rising up into the cloudless sky. Our escorts played local music and we swayed along to the exotic yet soothing sounds of a language we hadn’t even begun to understand. 

We made our way across the stretches of coastline, town carved out of the mountains, winding in and out of villages untouched by the traffic of tourists- until we hit Marmaris. We walked along the Turkish Riviera stopping to view the boats, snap the photos that will never do the location justice, and snack on pastries- salty and sweet- while playing backgammon with the locals.

Needless to say- the cruise didn't happen- which we found was a blessing in disguise after learning that we would be packed like sardines in dark wooden cabins with six French couples for five days. 

Instead, we threw caution to the Aegean wind and took in the region’s charm and palm-lined waterfront while indulging our senses in everything the blue bay of Bodrum had to offer. We strolled the paths under the shadows of the medieval castle and at night, we drank wine amongst the silhouettes of the darkened elegant Gullets. 

Bodrum is a mix of a lively Bohemian air and subtle sophistication. Seafood caught daily mixed with local drinks leading to boisterous clubs and bars- some with live music reminiscent of Parisian haunts- lent to the atmosphere of the enchanting peninsula. We spent our days exploring the coastline as it unfolded before us leading to quiet bays. We discovered the solitude in surrounding towns, we sunbathed aboard private sailboats- while the captain and crew prepared multiple salads and fish caught just that morning. We ate, we drank, we danced, we laughed- we discarded all of our plans and relished the pleasures of Turkey- the pleasures of not having a plan at all.

We savored each passing second and then as quickly as it began- the whirlwind tour ended. We left Turkey revitalized with broadened minds and bronzed skin. 

In our bags, we carried with us glass evil eye beads meant to protect us from all future evils. And in our hearts, we carried the new colors that were introduced into our worlds- something that will never leave us- that we will take with us wherever we may go.

Turkey far exceeded everything I had hoped it would be. Maybe the experience was intensified because of the profound necessity to escape- if only for a week. Or maybe it’s because it was one of those magical experiences where everything just comes together- the place, the people, the energy- like a miraculous harmony- completely unexpected. 

Graduates, Lemons and Lemonade

The MBA class of 2009, the class ahead of mine, graduates tomorrow. This signifies a couple of things. 

Firstly, it means that a year from tomorrow, I will be graduating. 

It means that the new crop of 1 year MBA’s will soon be infiltrating our halls- fresh blood- always a good thing. 

It means that despite the crisis, the lack of jobs, the crumbling of and later rebuilding of the global economy- life still goes on- and MBAs are still going out in the world in hopes of changing it- making it better for the rest of us- and of course, grabbing a decently sized piece of the pie for themselves. Good luck. I mean that.

The graduation of the 2009 class also means that it is now time to say goodbye to the new friends I have barely had the chance to get to know. I regret this, as it’s partially my fault- always coming up with the excuse, “next term. When things calm down. Next weekend, when I have less work…" continuously and guilelessly believing that I could evade the passage of time. And now, like so many other people that have passed in and out of my life- and so many opportunities that have passed me by just because I happened to blink- I have to say goodbye and wonder if I’ll ever see these individuals again, these people whose faces and voices have become the wallpaper and soundtracks of my life. I honestly hope so. 

So the lesson learned? 

Savour the days- the friendships- the individuals- the exceptional people brought into my life by this modest MBA because before I know it- before any of us know it- it will all be over. 

Some good news along those lines though (disguised as bad news) is that I’ll be sticking around Spain for the duration of the program. 

In other words; I’m not going on exchange. 

Anyway, someone once told me, Cuando la vida te da limones... Haz limonada. So that’s exactly what I’ll be doing; Haciendo limonada in Barcelona. Don’t get me wrong- I’m still angry.

Speaking of making lemonade and taking advantage of situations- I’m leaving for Turkey tomorrow. "Semana Santa", “holy week,” or to us students- "Spring Break," is finally upon us! I doubt it’s going to be the wet t-shirt contest, tequila shot taking, sun soaked type of “Spring Break” Cancun was back in the undergrad era however, I’m just as excited- if not more. 

One full week sans tapas, sans callous Catalan cab drivers, sans mind boggling case studies and waiting at bus stops in the rain at 8:00 a.m. 

So off I go again- If only for a short while. Semana Santa is in fact holy - a much needed break considering the fact that finals ended three weeks ago and we’ve since been going full speed ahead with a three day negotiations seminar, a week long intensive course on strategy implementation, and now a week of term 3 courses. There is an air of apathy around here. Maybe its because after the intensity of finals, we were denied a breather. Or maybe its because in one or two days time, we will all be headed to airports and train stations in search of our own brands of tranquility. 

It’s time to GO. And “go” we will.

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.”

~Robert Louis Stevenson

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.

Números y Palabras

Final exams kick off on Wednesday morning with a bang- Corporate Finance at 9 a.m. They didn't just creep up quickly this time, they jumped at me out of nowhere and left me unwittingly stunned with their proximity, rendering me speechless and moreover, sleepless.

This time, as I open my books and scan my notes while tapping away on my overused calculator- I’m praying that I know enough to get me through, pleading with my lucky stars, and searching for the best (and most altruistic) candidates to help me prepare. This is one of the key discoveries I’ve made during the MBA- that no great feats are accomplished alone. Furthermore, one of the most valuable lessons (a lesson I learned the hard way) is that who you study with is just as important as what you are studying, why, and when. 

It’s about 4 a.m. on Monday morning and I’m only now considering sleep, while deliberating between attending morning classes, staying home to study, or sneaking in the few hours of sleep I know will make a world of difference come Wednesday.

I could work out a few more problems- but Net Present Values and Internal Rates of Return are all sounding like same thing to me right now, and the formula for growing annuity may as well be Chinese. 

So what am I doing? I’m writing. 

It may be the last thing that will help me pass my exams- but it brings me peace. It keeps me connected to the life I once had- where I followed what I thought I should be doing- where my heart took me. Furthermore, it keeps me sane. 

With scraps of paper filled with foreign equations strewn about my room and books I would much rather use as door stops highlighted (nay- massacred with neon shades of green and pink and yellow)…with dog-eared pages spread strategically over tables and chairs throughout my apartment…with about 200 windows open on my computer from wikipedia definitions of perpetuity to practice problems and the answers that don't seem to match no matter how many times I do them, I’m taking a moment to be me. Because this whole quantitative analysis thing- as much as I’m trying to be THAT person- is not coming as naturally as I had once hoped. (Although I have to admit that on the rare occasions I come to the end of a 2-hour problem with the right answer- the satisfaction is pretty intense).

So here I am, sitting up in bed, listening to my long-lived “writing playlist,” while the rest of Western Europe is sleeping, letting the words of the world in my head spin themselves into semi-coherent sentences and spill onto a page. And finally, after far too much time and admittedly, a few tears and an abundance of anxiety- I feel like me. 

I just wish I could stay here a little longer. 

But exams and numbers call…and once again, I must put aside those things that calm me and make me feel whole- so that I can attempt (and hope) to make it through another grueling term-only to begin another- and eventually, graduate with an MBA and figure out a way to turn these numbers into art- or turn these words of mine into numbers- and share something significant with the world…because isn’t that what we are all here to do? Maybe I’m just going about it a bit differently.

With that- I’m going to take a select few of these thoughts and share them- and hopefully have the chance to remind my fellow classmates- to take a little time for yourselves. And do something you loved doing before you got to school…and I promise, when you wake up tomorrow morning- or on the morning of the exam you fear the most- everything you are working towards will make a little more sense. Goodnight.