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What's the story, morning glory?

"So, tell me about it!"

It was the fifth or sixth time in the week I'd home that I'd faced this prompt. I smiled in a way that I hoped seemed polite, but probably betrayed my nervousness. "Well, where to start?" I rhetorically floundered.

 

Studying abroad isn't like normal travel. You're living this strange, uncategorized experience. Not quite tourist, not quite local, and- when none of your classes are integrated- not quite student at your adoptive university. You don't fully understand the culture, contemporary issues, or language of this place, but you know enough to get by and have a somewhat informed opinion. It's always clear that you're an outsider looking in, even if you've got more of an inside view than the typical tourist.

You don't quite fit wherever you are. But you're certainly not at home, either; your day is winding down as that of your loved ones is beginning and even with social media, you're not up to speed on their current events. You wake up every morning with this surreal realization that you're not in the same place you have been for the past twenty years.

 

The honeymoon of return began before I left. I was so excited to come home and see the people I'd missed that I packed up my things a day early and created grand plans of what I'd pack into the short time I had in the Chicagoland Area. Of course I was sad to leave Barcelona. I spent my last day wandering my favorite streets, reading the the Parc de la Ciutadella and by the Arc de Triomf, and reflecting on the general sense of surrealism and magic surrounding my time abroad. But I couldn't wait to be home. I wanted deep dish pizza from Pequod's and authentic Mexican food from Jalisco's. I wanted to play with my cousins and swim in my grandparents' pool. I wanted to eat crappy mozzarella sticks and overreact to TV shows with my sister. I wanted to hug my parents. I just wanted to be home.

I noticed during landing that the city- my city, I reminded myself- looked harsh, dull, rough, repugnant, and yet, somehow, beautiful. And then there I was, being whisked from one outing to another. I faced the rushing around, pattern-less sidewalks, and ridiculous distances between places a little less comfortably as the days went on. It all felt somehow off in a way I can't quite explain. I found myself often wondering why things were how they were. I felt lazy, bored, and restless at the same time.

I had only begun to recover from jetlag when my wisdom teeth came out. I was drugged out of my mind and in to sleeping for three days straight. The jetlag returned, my face ached, and I'd slept away a third of my time at home. Before I knew it, my stitches were out and I had to repack my bags. I'd hardly had time to see any of my favorite people once, never mind adjust to not having to separate all my trash and recycles, or the fact that the showers here are so freaking big. I mean, what is a person supposed to do with all that space?! (Fun fact: I actually shouted these sentiments out to my mother the first time I showered back at home. I also sat on the shower floor and extended my legs in front of me to shave. It was a shocking experience.)

 

Even after repeatedly confronting the "So, tell me about it!" prompt, I never developed a real answer. I awkwardly fumbled to sum up my time abroad in few enough sentences that I cross over into droning on while also not simply repeating, "It was amazing." How could I summarize nine weeks of feeling lost and at home, fun and some of the hardest challenges I've faced, loneliness and unexpected friendships? I had seen and done so much. I had met too many fascinating, beautiful, strange people. To share select memories like a collage of the trip's highlights would certainly not be entertaining for them. To try to explain all of the emotions surrounding the experience was certainly impossible for me.

Although I was with a group for this trip, I find myself in the same situation as when I returned from France: that is, without anyone to turn to and say, "Remember when...?". Basking in the memory of studying abroad and adjusting to life in the U.S. will be a deeply personal experience. Sharing about it will be a genuinely bewildering one. But here we go!

Until next time!

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