Overview of Barcelona from Parc Guell

Inside Sagrada Familia

It all started with a dream. It was our last night in Barcelona and while everyone else in our hostel was roasting (it was apparently pretty hot in our room, but I slept right through it), I was dreaming about Barcelona gypsies brutally robbing me blind. Luckily, I’m only about 50 percent prophetic.

Outside Sagrada Familia

The weekend thus far had been highly successful, we spent it ogling at the beautiful architecture, walking miles from plaza to plaza, and soaking in our fair share of Vitamin D at the beach. My favorite thing had been the Sagrada Familia, a church Gaudi designed that has been under construction for over a hundred years and the beach was a close second place. We’d enjoyed a fair share of sangria and a couple helpings of tapas and I was ready to go. But Barcelona had different plans for me.

Playa de Barceloneta

The Scene of the Crime

Sunday morning after my scary dream and a decent continental breakfast, we left our hostel and started the trek to the bus station where we intended to board a bus that would take us the hour drive to the airport in Girona. On the way, we had some extra time so we stopped at the Parc del Arc de Triumph to take some pictures and relax. My friend Hanna and I left our bags with some friends while we went to go take some pictures. After Hanna had gotten her picture in front of the ballerina-esque statue, we were walking back towards the group and I couldn’t spot my bag. I assured myself it couldn’t have gone anywhere and was probably just behind Lauren.

The $2,000 photo

We quickly came to realize that was not the case. My poor friends had undergone an entire gypsy plan of attack without even knowing it. While distracted by a man asking for money, a co-hort must have snuck up from behind and taken my bag. It could have been anyone’s, but it was mine. Since we were on our way to the airport, I had everything in there. I mean EVERYTHING. iPhone, iPod, Passport, Driver’s License, Credit Card, UK phone, etc.. etc… approximately $2,000 worth of stuff. It didn’t take me long to realize that I would not be allowed to board the plane in three hours with zero forms of identification.
After a few frantic phone calls, the police arrived and in some horrible, broken, Spanglish (on all our parts) and a couple rounds of charades, they understood the situation and had sent Hanna (my new designated caretaker, thank God for her) and I to the Police station. There we filed a police report with the best looking Spanish cop I’d ever seen. The entire station was friendly and helpful. They told us to go to the airport with our police report and a faxed copy of my passport and we should be able to board. The day prior to our day of departure, this would have worked; however, RyanAir’s policies had changed and after an hour long bus ride to the airport we found ourselves returning to Barcelona and re-checking into our hostel, defeated.

Sangria and Chocolate

In the morning, we woke up early and got to the US consulate right after they opened. I’ve never been so happy to see an American Flag. Within two hours I had an emergency passport in hand and was ready to go home. Sadly, the flight we had intended to take had over tripled in price overnight and the earliest one the next day was 9:15 PM. We returned back to our hostel and checked in for a third time. We spend the rest of the day shopping for essentials to make it through our last 32 hours of Spain, AKA sangria, chocolate, and clean clothes.

View of Barcelona from Parc Guell

Our final day we slept as late as possible trying to eat up the time before we could leave. We did a walking tour of the Gothic quarter led by an entertaining polish woman who gave us lots of insights into the history and culture of the area. Then we visited Gaudi’s park, which was nothing like we expected. Sadly, we didn’t get to spend much time there, but we did get some amazing overlooks of the whole city. We hopped on the bus—for the fourth time—and headed to the airport with more than enough time to catch our flight. We killed our last two hours in Spain with a bottle of Sangria and then got on a plane to go home. I’ve never been more excited to see the cars going the opposite way on the street as I was when we were landing in London and I just about tackled everyone when I got back to the house. Barcelona was beautiful, and tricky, but I was just so glad to home. Well, home away from home.

Look at my pictures from the whole Barcelona (Mis)Adventure here and get to see some more of the good parts of my trip!

Cambridge from Castle Hill

When I was little, I used to read a lot, like a lot, a lot. The majority was on my own, books I’d picked out from the small school library or books I convinced my parents to get me at the store. But what sticks with me most were the ones my mom and I read together every single night before bed. All the way through fifth grade I would curl up next to her in my parents’ big bed and she would read to me. I only read on my own because it was impossible for her to read to me as much as I wanted to hear, but if I could choose I always preferred her voice over that of the one in my own head.

My mother’s absolute favorite genre, so then of course mine as well, was historical fiction. We read about all sorts of people from princesses in Hawaii at the turn of the century to poor girls in England during the First World War. My favorite series were the American girl books and the Royal Diaries. The one book from the hundreds that I read that comes to mind during my travels thus far is the one about Queen Elizabeth I. Here I am, living in the country she ruled. I used to dream of being royalty, having no idea of the price that that would entail. Then, during the first week of my travels, I got the amazing opportunity to go to the Tower of London and walk around the streets that she lived in. All the names and the stories came rushing back to me, Queen Mary, King Henry the VII, Jane Grey, and there I was. I intensely studied the crowns they wore, the armor they fought in, and the stones upon which they died. It’s definitely hard to wrap your head around, but it is also one of the coolest things I’ve ever done in my entire life.

Tower of London

I’ve had a lot of those coolest-in-my-entire-life moments since I have been here. I landed six days ago. The first drop jaw moment I had was when I was waiting in the New York airport for my flight and realized that everyone around me had this lovely British accent and they were all so interesting. A man two rows behind me had broken out his guitar, yea, his guitar, in an airport, and was just rocking out. The lady who needed by me said “Cheers” instead of “Thank-you,” and I was just elated. Then I got on the plane and found my seat. I didn’t get a wink of sleep the entire flight, maybe I was too excited or maybe it was the awkward German man who kept falling asleep in my lap, or maybe it was a combination of the two. Either way, when we approached London and I saw the pretty lights in the shallow darkness of morning twinkling back at me, I couldn’t wipe the ridiculous smile off of my excited face. I watched the cars driving the opposite way on the roads and even from thousands of feet above them, I found it hard to comprehend all the differences that I was so excited to experience.

The ADORABLE British Taxis

St. Stephen's Tower (holds Big Ben)

The next couple days flew by in a blur of jet-lagged bouts of tiredness, squeals of “that _______ (insert anything here) is so adorable and British!!”, and long walks around Cambridge. Before I knew it, I was on my way with my thirteen other comrades into the big city of London! The arrival into King’s Cross Station was exciting, but nothing compared to the moment we came around the corner and spotted the tower housing the most famous bell in history (Big Ben is the name of the bell, not the tower!). At that very moment, the clouds that had been hovering over us all day separated into lovely bunches allowing the sunlight to stream down and send lens flares into all of my shots. The blue sky made its appearance and it was like London, with Big Ben and Parliament, were just begging to be photographed, and I happily obliged.

The next day we went to the London tower, the castle of England’s monarchs, and there I was, walking the streets remembering all those stories my mom read to me. I felt like I was cheating her, going there without her, she would love to see this so much. So I tried to take in as much as I could, for her sake. I have so many memories of her wandering around in museums reading every single sign, moving at snail’s pace trying to comprehend every little bit. I did my best to walk in her footsteps that day and I hope one day I can take her there, to the place of our fairytales. I am so blessed to have the chance to come to a place that can make history come alive for me. And I’ve been here less than a week, I cannot wait to see what else Europe has in store for me!

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It’s December 26^th and I still find myself saying “happy Christmas” here in Chicago. The cars are massive, people are less polite, and portions seem too much for any human. Being home for the holidays has been a mixed bag of nostalgic longing for the cobblestone culture of Cambridge, and the warm feeling of family and friends whom I’ve missed dearly.

I carried more than a few English phrases with me from Cambridge. It’s easy for travelers to develop a snobby Stockholm syndrome with their destinations; I cringe when I hear crass comparisons between stereotypes of cultures. “The way they it is so much better,” or “Wow, how American of you.”

Coming home, I’ve learned to define what it means to be culturally American. The idea of American culture as being vacuous and vapid is somewhat inaccurate. One professor of mine proclaimed the American four-way stop as a sign of the highly civilized nature of American driving (I laughed in his face).

The truth is, much of the pretentious attitude carried by study abroad students comes from a nasty case of “the grass is greener on the other side.” The great cities of the world – Paris, London, Rome – all have citizens who dream of visiting the great American cities – Chicago, New York, San Francisco.

I try not to be a travel snob, and occasionally it comes through. So forgive me, and forgive the rest of us.

Love, regardless of how one defines it, is not something that exists independently. It requires attention and devotion; that is to say, you have to work at it. Randy Pausch once said, “The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something.” Relationships function the same way.

My girlfriend and I have survived a semester apart, an ocean and seven time zones away. The task was daunting at first, but at the end of the endeavor, I find that it has been a fruitful experience. Here are some of the things I’ve learned.

It’s important to know how to say goodbye (or see you later).

Spending a semester apart requires that a relationship be in its best shape before the term starts. Like a marathon, your chances are best when you are prepared fit; a relationship is no different. It’s important that each person knows what to expect, and to expect those expectations to be challenged and maybe changed. Settle all fights and resolve all issues before the semester, else they’ll fester.

It’s all a lead up to knowing how to say goodbye properly.

Distance will make you talk more.

When all you have is talking and writing to each other, distance will exacerbate any problems and highlight any strong points. In my experience, my girlfriend and I managed to learn so much more about each other in the time we were away, primarily because all we had was the foundation of any relationship: communication. This is a prime opportunity to talk to each other at a depth that hasn’t been reached yet. As you learn more about yourself, share that.

It will be difficult, and it should be difficult.

Be honest about your relationship: Is it really strong enough to endure a semester apart? It’s a tough question to ask, but it’s a necessary one. My girlfriend and I go to different schools and have dated for nearly two years, so we had experience at distance before going into this past semester. However, if you relationship is celebrating its fourth week, and you’ve never spent more than 24 hours apart, it’s worth a critical self-evaluation.

Break conventions.

Few relationships are the same. A close friend of mine turned his relationship into an open one, in which both parties were allowed to see other people. That may not be a set up that fits everyone, certainly not me, but for the right couple it may work. There are all sorts of ways to keep a relationship going. Don’t be afraid to break convention to make it work.