How do I feel, sitting here in Barajas Airport, waiting to fly back home after 6 months?

Surprised; there’s a bilingual announcement demanding that passengers with destination: America arrive at their gate an hour and a half early. I’m here, 1 1/2 hours early, with three others and the gate is closed.

Sad, for the reason I’m returning early, compounded by the normal sadness of leaving a new temporary home.

Happy, that I get to enjoy my American food again.

Apprehensive: Do I appreciate my family more when they aren’t next door? Perhaps I’ll need Madison sooner than I thought.

Not worried, about my grades this semester; I should be, but it’s a typical semester-abroad reaction.

Tired, for not sleeping much last night and for thinking about the 10 hours Iberia Airlines is about to change into 3.

Disappointed, that I didn’t reach some of my goals, travel to some of the places I wanted to, remember as much Spanish as I should have.

Satisfied, because at least I can carry my own in this second language. Even the customs agent implied as such, and they are usually meaner than an old Spanish widow.

LOLing because of the American stereotypes I am running back to, and to which I have already been exposed to in the airport (fat overtanned Texan, Maxim magazine in hand).

Although it came a week after frolicking in France, Morocco was quite different from the rest of my spring break, more of an eye-opening journey than a relaxing vacation. The entire trip I carried the mildly guilty sensation I was touring poverty. I don’t regret going: I stayed with cool friends, tried new food, learned new words and experienced a different culture up close. But I simultaneously feared robbery and desired to have a small child steal my wallet to even out the financial inequity.

Spain certainly was a new culture to dive into from my American armchair. But the quality-of-life changes far more in the tiny lick of sea between Iberia and Morocco than it does across the entire Atlantic. My weekend in Morocco taught me better than anything else that the world isn’t all elevators and La-Z-Boys.

Among my favorite cultural differences down south was food. Street vendor sandwiches the first day, which left me bearably sick for a week; wannabe churros (twice); tajine, mint tea and cous cous in an open air restaurant with caged birds singing above our heads; cheap Heineken from a sketchy store in the French neighborhood (alcohol is less prevalent in Muslim Morocco than Catholic Spain); scrumptious camel burgers from a touristy restaurant with friendly wait staff and Norwegian table-neighbors; and of course, I visit the Embassy in every country: McDonald’s as a pre-flight lunch (Moroccan McFlurry specialty: Toblerone)

It rained on and off, which made our hike up the mountain no more than a muddy attempt, though I still had to convert my umbrella into a parasol to shield my fair skin from the African sun.

I toured a tannery, smells and all; was scared out of my wits as a preteen guide led us either out of the medina or to certain, anonymous death; saw people buying handfuls of edible snails; got run off the dusty road by countless pack mules; bartered unsuccessfully for a Spanish soccer jersey; and survived perhaps the third-worst experience of my life in a Roman bath house.

But mostly I learned that the world is tough outside of the wealthy Western bubble. I knew just by having a bank account my family was among the richest in the world, but now I see how that’s true and that there’s just nothing fair about it. But I’m reminded that, apart from learning to live with needs and less wants, education is the best bet for giving millions more a better life. It’s the fairest and surest way to make things a little more equal.

ONE of the king's palaces

Cool house where I stayed with friends in Fes

Overlooking Fes

Basketcase

Hiking

Tannery. Smelled like it, too.

Dunkey

Jesse and I had our own RENFE train car for the short 2 1/2 hour ride to Seville. Unfortunately, rain pitter-pattered on our windows from Madrid till the end of the weekend.

My trek to Seville had kind of a Motherland feel to it, probably because my mother was born on a nearby American Air Force base several centuries ago. Her students might say she gets her penchant for strictness from the authoritarian dictator who ran Spain when she lived there.

Moving on. It rained so much in Seville I ended up throwing out my shoes and buying 2 euro flip flops from a store run by Chinese immigrants. But we did get to see Plaza de España, a beautiful piece of Seville built in the 1930s and featured in Star Wars.

We were lucky to glimpse one of the pasos that help make Easter time in Seville so famous. Pasos are enormously heavy shrines, often featuring Jesus or his mother, carried down the streets of Seville during Semana Santa (Holy Week) on the backs of pious Catholics.

They have pasos and parades in the days before Easter all over Spain, but they’re most prevalent in the south and most famous in Seville.

Jesús gave us a break from rain on his special day, Easter Sunday. We peered inside churches, toured a gorgeous Arabic palace that my friends said they preferred to the Alhambra in Granada, and checked out the cathedral, the world’s third biggest church and the largest Gothic building in Europe. We climbed the giant cathedral tower, and upon looking out over the horizon to our dark, cloudy doom, raced to the bus stop for our overnight to Murcia before the return of the rain.

The lovely Cathedral of Seville. Can't even capture the whole thing in one frame.

Seville's cathedral has the world's largest altarpiece.

Looking across the river in sunny Seville.

Murcia is a small city in the southeast of Spain, not far from the Mediterranean. My cousin Trevor, who studied there all spring, called it a hidden gem. Trevor’s mom and sisters, my cousins, were visiting him during their spring break, so I managed to spend Easter time with family, even in Europe.

We took the typical tour route in Murcia (art, cathedral, local food, giant suburban mall) then headed to the main attraction: the beach. The fam was staying in Los Alcázares, what seemed to be a fake town for British vacationers on Mar Menor, a particularly warm inlet of the Mediterranean. Spanish beaches in the spring can only be summed up in one word: beautiful.

After some wine and cheese on the sand, it was off to the train station and back to Madrid…back to impending finals and a hungry laundry machine. What a tough life it is to study abroad.

Respecting local culture in Murcia

Unique Murcian cuisine. Also liked the "meat cakes."

Seaside with the family in Los Alcazáres

Although I left France without a French wife, my trip up north was still a smashing success. In that I hit on the brown-eyed info desk girl at the train station in Strasbourg with French greetings.

Among other reminders of home, France was full of cheese and beer. At least in the first two stops, the people were polite and friendly, conversations only cut short by language. Many spoke English fluently, though the whole thing felt like an escape, with French everywhere, English rare, and Spanish only among friends.

My time in France was broken into three distinct trips–first Montpellier, then Strasbourg, then, por su puesto, Paris.

Four of us hopped on a 16 1/2 hour overnight bus from Madrid to Montpellier, on the French Mediterranean, to visit Abby Jackson from Wisconsin. Delirious from the bus ride, we lazily picnicked in the beautiful French city of 250,000. Friday night, we threw an American barbecue, per request of Abby’s European neighbors. Needless to say, I was grillmaster, and it was catastrophic. Saturday we bussed to a sunny, albeit chilly day at the beach; flamingos and palm trees dotted the drive.

On our last day in the south we snuck on a 20 minute train farther west along the coast to Sète, a touristy town, but rightly so. We lunched among the boat canals, climbed the rocky shore, touched what looked to be coral and oysters and took in the crashing aqua-blue waves.

Vacation

Baby Arc de Triomphe in Monty

The Mediterranean from Sète

Sunday night was another overnight trek, this time by train to Strasbourg in Alsace, a region that passed between the Germans and the French until the First World War settled things.

Strasbourg is among the most beautiful cities I have visited in Europe. In the old center, circled by a quick-running river, nearly every building is maintained perfectly–an ornate French town with heavy German influences, right out of the 1700s. I had a true French wine-and-cheese night, biked out to the buildings of the European Parliament and visited one of the most ornate cathedrals in Europe.

I ate tarte flambée, a traditional Alsatian dish and, more beloved German influence: soft pretzels and microbrew. And of course, enough croissants and baguettes to feed every butler in Luxembourg.

The Cathedral of Strasbourg

One of the two meeting places of the European Parliament (the other in Brussels).

Another church in Strasbourg, being renovated

Next, two hours on the high speed French rail brought me to Europe’s real capital: Paris.

What to say. The city was dripping with wealth, crawling with tourists, popping with pride. I felt very awake each day there; seeing something as ubiquitous as the Eiffel Tower in person reminds you that the world is both small and real. The first two stops felt like brief vacations to places I may not return. But I sincerely hope to visit Paris again and discover more.

The Eiffel Tower along the River Seine

Arc de Triomphe. Would love to drive this roundabout someday.

From the park behind Notre Dame.

What did I think of France? I’ve wanted to visit for years and been in love with the French language and attractive women who speak it just as long. Some stereotypes were broken: people were friendly and many gladly spoke English. Stereotypes were reinforced: funny French accents in English, every other person carrying a baguette, berets, horizontal stripes, and people looking proud just for gracing the streets with their well-groomed hair.

But it’s harder to take my own Pepé Le Pew jokes so seriously now. Like every continent, country, culture, France is more diverse than stereotypical. I saw more varied skin tones in Montpellier than Madrid, younger beggars in Strasbourg than Madison and more wealth in Paris than I have seen in most American cities.

My stay explained why France is the most visited country in the world. I couldn’t help but compare between France and my temporary Spanish home. The pair are similar, inevitably so among two western European countries filled with socialists, romance languages and vacation time. While the southern counterpart has continued to embrace the phrase “Spain is in crisis” since the Brits started posing a threat in the 1500s, France maintains a greater interest in flaunting (everything).

Habitants of both are generally prone to excessive hair styling, constant conversations and non-existant customer service (serving people, tips and timeliness are American activities, take them or leave them).

To sum up: My impression of France is that the people love humanity and like dressing it up.

I’m currently in the last throes of final exams, final papers and perhaps the finality of my sanity.

In the meantime, mom, here is one picture from each city I have been to since just before Easter.

More pix (and writing) to follow in June. As soon as I finish learning Spanish.

The beach near Montpellier, France

Sète, a fishing town on the Mediterranean

Strasbourg Cathedral

Don't remember where this was taken

Plaza de España at sunset in Seville

Cathedral in Murcia

Hanging with the fam in Los Alcázares

Moroccan donkey in Fez

Back 'home' for the holiday of San Isidro, patron saint of Madrid, celebrating as only Spaniards do

Our first stop was the capital of Extremadura, Mérida. There we saw an ancient roman amphitheater, once graced by gladiators, lions, and even small boats to reenact naval battles. The Romans, those ingenious engineers, built a complex drainage system used for both emptying rain from the circular arena and filling it up with water so the boats could float around and fight each other, *pew*pew*!

Next door to the amphitheater was a larger open-air theater, the stage backdropped by soaring pillars and marble statues. Locals used to attend plays at night, with social classes separated between expensive or nosebleed sections (similar to nowadays). Most of the original stone and marble has either deteriorated with time or been moved to a safe museum, but merely imagining the original splendor was breathtaking.

During lunch break, we dined on Migas Extremeñas, a delicious appetizer that reminded us all of Thanksgiving stuffing. They are more or less bread crumbs fried with sausage and garlic–EXTREMaly delicious.

Back on the bus, we shot off to Cáceres, for a quick walking tour of the historical town followed by Spanish dinner (wine, cheese, croquetas, meat, dessert over two and a half hours). We got back to the hotel well after midnight, where I was surprised to find no alarm clocks. The more Spanish I become, the more and more punctuality seems like an American invention. But a bad invention, like baconnaise or that vibrating belt that helps you “lose weight.”

After comparing sunburns with the Irish kids at brunch on Sunday morning, it was off to Trujillo, my favorite leg of the trip. The ancient town boasts beautiful stone castles, many built by Spaniards who made a fortune in the Americas, then returned to flaunt their trans-Atlantic success. According to our guide, the leader of Marquette University studied at the seminary in Trujillo (not sure exactly who he meant, but another small world connection across the pond).

Up on a castle wall, I found perhaps my favorite view in Spain: endless rolling green meadows with quaint Spanish farms, bordered by a foggy wall of mountains on the edge of sight. After much dawdling, we came down from the castle and joined a fledgling Medieval Festival, dining on the most traditional of Spanish foods: roasted corn on the cob, entire chickens off an open- flame grill, french fries, custard-stuffed donuts and mojitos.

I’ve learned that I want to return everywhere I visit in Spain, so this time I’ll admit that I won’t get back. But EXTREMely glad the program brought us to Extremadura, because I never would have thought to visit on my own.

Roman amphitheater...thumbs up or thumbs down

Some of the seats look well-kept because they are plastic covers!

The once Roman town center in Mérida

Old and New

Sweet, underground Roman water filtration system...now with goldfish!

A sampling of original statues, now living in a cavernous museum near their original home. Less acid rain inside here

Now in Cáceres. Notice the storks in their nests? They sold stuffed stork animals in nearby shops

Main church in Cáceres

Wherever I go, the beautiful reminder of the summer to come here in palm tree country

The view from Trujillo. Looks Irish, doesn't it?

Terra cotta roofs and cloudy skies

Sword fighting by strollers at the Medieval faire

¡Outdoor paella!

Trujillo town square from the faire

For Spaniards, breakfast is light, followed perhaps by a snack between 10 and noon. This is usually referred to as el almuerzo, the word we are taught in school for “lunch.” La comida, the truer equivalent to our lunch, is the biggest meal of the day and usually eaten after 2:00. In the south of Spain, especially Andalucía, this lunch is followed by the famous siesta, but here in Madrid, few people take the time to nap mid-day. Dinner doesn’t come until 8:30 p.m. or later, and even then it’s often just a snack before bed. I have eaten as late as midnight, for various Spanish reasons.

Pillars of eating in Spain:

• Ham
• Wine
• Olive oil
• Ham flavored chips
• Olive oil
• Beer
• Pineapple juice
• Bread
• Cheese
• Olive oil
• Fanta soda
• Fruit for dessert
• Pizza with ham
• Croquetas
• Paella
• Spanish tortilla
• Churros with chocolate

Of all the questions my norteamericanos and I ask each other, the most common is “What will your first food be?” I’ve thought long and hard, and here is my proposed calendar of consumption for the first week back stateside*

June 28: Culver’s en route from O’Hare to Titletown; barbecue at Uncle Dan’s and Spotted Cow

June 29: TEXAS Roadhouse with the Stark trio (cinnamon bread…)

June 30: Zesty’s with available Knoespels (several liters of frozen custard; grilled cheese; cheese curds; lactose intolerance IV)

July 1: McDonald’s breakfast with Scotty Smits (here, they serve burgers and beer when they open at 10)

July 2: Break/vomit day

July 3: China Buffet (most American food I can think of)

July 4: Suzie White’s Good Ol’ Amurican cookin’ (second most American food)

July 5: Popcorn in line for Harry Potter 7 1/2 (in theaters July 15)

*subject to change

Three partial exams (midterms) this week, pardon the lack of sentence structure.

P.S. If anyone has a job or other money-making activity for me in the states starting in July, please let me know where to send my résumé…