To All The Cities I’ve Loved Before

After avoiding writing this blog post for some time, I return to my keyboard today for Round 2, with the goal of sharing something that expresses “what the last 6 years in London has meant to me”. From previous experience, personal growth over the last couple of years, and a general desire to want to remember how I felt during certain periods of my life, I know it’s important to take time out after a significant life event or the closing of a chapter to process. So why do I avoid it so much? My hypothesis is this: reflecting on the past forces humans to think about the good, the bad, and the ugly – all at once; there are obvious risks involved in doing this. For example, if we relive the memory of the “good” the past brought us, the blissful moments spent in pure happiness and joy could prove difficult to relive, resulting in inevitable nostalgia and foreshadowing a bleak future. If we relive the memory of the “bad”, we may inadvertently go back to the dark place that we were once in (and finally mustered the courage to slowly creep out of). Or perhaps, reminiscing on the “ugly” would lead us to a path of resentment, where hatred and anger resurface, causing further pain and blocking progression towards the future. How do we avoid all of this? Don’t reflect, duh. Sure that’s the easy thing to do, but we all know perhaps not the most fruitful.

So, as I prepared for my fourth international move a couple of weeks back, you would think I had hacked a way to “make it work” – cracked the code, solved the mystery, found the secret passage out, become more efficient (I am a Consultant, after all) in finding a way to remember & reflect without inflicting any of the side effects on me in the process. With that secret sauce to success, some sort of concoction or formula that was tried and tested, I could make the upcoming transition, at least mentally, from London to Shanghai seamless – because surely the fourth time you go through the same type of big life event, you know what the process will be like…right? I kept wracking my brain to think of the “international move checklist” I could (or should) have started to prepare from previous times that I had moved:

• Meet up with friends?
• Give away books and clothes?
• Finish off the restaurant bucket list?
• Relive the good, bad and the ugly (and remember it for the reflection later on)?
• Etc. etc. etc…

But it didn’t seem to work. Why on earth could I not remember the Rules of Cross-Continental Shifting? Well, dear friend, I think it’s because moving across time zones is a bit like dating – every person (or city) you encounter comes with its own experience – you either have chemistry (or you don’t), maybe you work well for a bit and then drift apart, perhaps you start off in an intense way and then realize you’re stifling each other as individuals and it’s time to let go. And though each of these relationships can teach you important life lessons – about yourself, the other and the world around you both – none of those lessons can protect you from what the future holds in the next relationship; it just isn’t completely transferrable in process or preparation for the next one.

Similarly, the experiences I’ve had in each of the cities I’ve lived over the past 28 years has required its own headspace and mindset as well as time and place in my life. Despite this, I’ve held a significant memory of each city I’ve shared some time with – much like we do in relationships – leading me to my conclusion: I choose to date cities over people. So, in breaking up with London and starting a new relationship with Shanghai, what are my reflections?

Ah, well when you put it that way, that is a much easier question to answer. In finding my muse, I can reflect more easily on what London has meant to me, in the context of my other city relationships. And so, in true Lara Jean fashion, I choose to share my thoughts by writing letters: “To All the Cities I’ve Loved Before”. For me to fully understand what London has meant over the last 6 years, we must go all the way back to Washington, D.C. And why, you ask? Well, you see, D.C. was my first…

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To: Washington, D.C., USA – My First, True Love
Dear D.C.,

I wanted to survive in your world. You may not have known it, but you were where I first realized I was a city girl. You taught me so much over our time together – from finally appreciating that there are other forms of commuting than driving, to learning the art of walking for fun rather than exercise. You showed me that healthy food didn’t have to taste bad and even gave me the foresight into how friendships could be global in nature but still stay strong years later.

We had four, blissful years together – which came with its ups and downs, of course – but I felt we parted ways with each one being grateful and humbled by the experience of meeting one another. You helped me grow into a confident, young woman and were the first to not only tell me that I had a bright future but also start to show me what I could do with all the fire and potential I had built up inside. When I met you, I was homeless, confused, and didn’t know if I could fend for myself. Despite all of this, you took me in and showed me that I could embrace my previously labeled flaws by reinventing them into Survivor Scars. Over time, these scars represented both my ability to survive, as well as thrive, both in our relationship and in the outside world. Both were initially completely new, foreign, and out of my comfort zone, to say the least – but you made them feel like a place I could rest safely at night.

When things got tough between us, I found myself resenting you for not fulfilling the needs and expectations I started to create for our relationship. Even if I didn’t explicitly say it at the time, it was important to me that we took some time away to regroup and see what life was like without each other, and I’m grateful for the six months we took apart, so I could see what else was out there for me. In the end, it meant I could come back to you and appreciate what we had together and what else I could give to us. Looking back, I think our time together was special for several reasons: I was young, naïve, and ready to learn and grow; you were older, confident and had been in several relationships. But all this meant you knew what I needed and how to take care of me whilst giving me my independence to explore who I wanted to be in the world. And through this, we kept an open mind and saw each other for what we truly were becoming at the time.

Most importantly, though, we knew our relationship was ephemeral, and though the end of University marked the end of our time together, you will always have a special place in my heart. And if you ever wonder, “Why me?” well the answer was always so simple: Because you saw me when I was invisible. * Thanks for being my first, true love, D.C. – you opened my eyes to the joy that love could bring, and I am forever grateful.

Yours truly,
Noreen

*Quote from Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries

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To: Madrid, Spain – My Summer Love
Querida Madrid,

I wanted to be immersed in your world. I will never forget the first time we met – I was lost in an alley, only to be suddenly greeted by a vociferous gentleman, whom I later found out was my host dad. Being in your presence on our first walking date together, I found myself in awe of all that you could offer, but at the same time, I was dismissive – I was still heartbroken and angry with D.C. and couldn’t see beyond that. Over time, our chemistry spurred a need for me to know more about you, and it was obvious we were both happy with each other in the moment; nothing else mattered. You were my American-girl-goes-to-Europe-and-falls-in-love rom com story that everyone wanted – and I got to have whilst abroad for the first time.

Though I was initially turned off by how different we were to one another and had never anticipated us to be friends, let alone lovers, I later realized that you helped me discover a part of my personal identity that I didn’t fully appreciate before – my religion. And though your faith continues to be different from my own, you gave me the chance to explore this with you, not once but twice, when we were together.

In you, I realized the love I still had within me to give to D.C., and though it was time for me to go back to see that through 6 months later, a little part of me always wondered: what would happen if we truly pursued something together in the long-term? In all honesty, it’s why I kept seeing you every time I was nearby, to see if I strongly felt one way or another, to see if there was ever the urge to commit wholeheartedly to making “us” work. But when we last met in November 2018, things with London were getting a bit better, and it was then that I knew – our differences, albeit blissfully ignored by both of us when together, were still there and would never fully be reconcilable, neither by each other nor by the outside world. Just because we loved each other didn’t mean we were compatible. And that’s when I let go of the idea of “us” being anything more than a distant memory – because I know what the rom coms say: you can’t lose something you never had to begin with…*

Con todo mi corazon,
Nora

*Quote from Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy In 10 Days

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To: Amaan, Jordan – My Almost Lover
Ya Habibi Al Urdun,

I wanted to admire the beauty of your world. Oh, where do I even begin? Fairuz always had the perfect words to describe your beauty, your elegance, your hospitality – you always had it all, and everyone always knew. Though I could never attempt to praise you the way Fairuz does, one of the things I continue to love the most about you is your passion and zest for life and all its wonders.

Our time together was brief, yet cherished, and we always knew this was going to be the case. I am most happy in knowing, though, that we made the most of it from the day I arrived in your arms. In you, I learned that it’s okay to spend time reliving my youth, enjoying life’s daily pleasures, and living in the moment as each one passes by. You taught me that finding myself is part of the process of self-discovery, rather than the fall of it, and that just because all good things must come to an end, doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them whilst they are still happening.

We shared so many special memories – late night drives to Shawarma Asa3g, Eid festivities in your backyard, meeting people that became friends and friends that became family, and starting the weekend on Thursday’s, as per the Arabic saying. I would have never seen the light and hope that the Middle East offers if it was not for your openness and honesty. In four, short weeks, you convinced me of a lifetime of love that we could have together. And Insha’Allah, one day, we will reunite again to finish our love story. It may not be fully written, but it will never be lost for me, because I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.

Ya’atek al afiya ya habibi,
Nura3yn

*Quote from Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail

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To: London, UK – My Love-Hate Lover
Dearest London,

I wanted to prove I could stick it out in your world. Writing to you is always the hardest, because even though I grew the most in our relationship, you also caused me the most pain. I remember when I visited you for the first time on a weekend trip, I remember thinking, “Great city. Would never want to live in it.”. Maybe it was that sentiment that stuck with me as I begrudgingly came to you 2.5 years after that encounter, in the pursuit of something completely different than what you had to offer. In some ways, being with you during my mid-20’s was both a blessing and a curse, because it gave me the chance to go through every emotion I could with you: excitement at what was going to come, anger at what our relationship had become, loneliness when you made sure the first thing people saw in me was my American accent rather than what my voice could bring to the table, and hope that I could turn it all around before I finally left you for good. When I had had enough, you retaliated with the bitter cold, gloom & doom (sometimes in one go). At one point, the abuse became too much to handle: physical I endured, emotional I conceded, mental I despaired, and psychological – I just couldn’t bear.

After D.C. showed me how to use love to survive, Madrid reminded me I always had the choice to be loved, and Amman loved me unconditionally and with open arms, you continued to disappoint. But all the previous relationships I had been in taught me something I carried with me into ours – resilience. When you fought, I fought harder. When you told me I was anxious or depressed, I sought help. When you left me alone, I found friends. When you told me I had to stay, I decided it was time to finally go. And at each step of the way, I persevered, with or without you by my side.

There was a lot I hated about you, but I soon realized I didn’t need to hate you to love myself – and so, I did. I hated it when you made me cry, but I chose to laugh with myself instead. I hated it when you gave me gloom and despair, but I decided the cold never bothered me anyway. I hated it when you made me stay longer than I wanted, but I chose to make the most of the days we had together instead. And today, I can honestly say that although I hated you for all that you did, I still love that I had the chance to learn from each experience in the end.

So, as I finally seek freedom from you and leave you (at least for now), I want to let you know that I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. And I know that even though you will always be cold and gloomy, there will always be a part of you that hates to love me, too.

With all my love,
Noreen

*Quote from Julia Stiles in Ten Things I Hate About You

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To: Shanghai, China – What Is Love?
Zūn Jìng De Shanghai,

I know we just met, but I want to be myself in our world. Aside from that, the rest is still unwritten. So, let’s get started, shall we?

From Royal Throne to Royal Palace: Hiatus Edition

It’s been two months since I’ve started my program at the Institute of Ismaili Studies, working toward’s a Master’s and a Certificate in the Graduate Program on Islamic Studies and Humanities (GPISH), and I have to say, it has been one hell of a ride thus far. I had my first all-nighter experience this past week, followed by a presentation I failed, only to be called out in class by a professor who didn’t think my work had any value to the topic of discussion. Talk about the trials and tribulations of going to Grad School. I didn’t necessarily expect the experience to be the same as college, but I also knew it would be easier for me to make the transition to the UK Higher Education system, relative to my Eastern-educated peers. Then, I remembered that (like many of my peers back home) I am a procrastinator by nature. The worst part of this was not realizing this, but rather realizing that not everyone else a procrastinator, too.

Academics aside, making the transition to London has been just as great of a challenge as I feared it would be. Having gone to college in a place where 90% of the population was white, brand loyalty reigns the entire campus, and American social norms cause great conformity. I’ve spent the past 21 years of my life adapting to the lifestyle I found around me, assuming this is the way the world works. Boy, was I wrong. The transition to this specific niche within London is nothing like I’ve ever expected. All my life, I grew up with the notion that expressing too much brown culture was not valued or accepted, and I truly believed the best way to assimilate to the American-Pakistani culture was by balancing both within a majority-American environment. This all came crashing down when I found myself at the Institute, in an area where the prevalent Indo-Pak culture reigns any signs of British etiquette holding weight. I’ve got to applaud the UK on it’s successful inclusion of all ethnicities and diverse backgrounds–even places like Camden Market will have a Peruvian, Ethiopian, and Malaysian stand all in a row, which is something hard to come by, even in as metropolitan of a city as DC. However, this comes at the expense of assimilation to a British culture. Sure, British imperialism swept over half of the world as we know it today, but in the process, did the UK forget to create its own identity in adopting those of all of the countries it sought out? I’m not exactly sure, but I think Diwali on Trafalgar Square might be able to help answer that question…

In all candor, I’ve seen some pretty awesome stuff here in the past two months, and despite the god-awful damp and cold treachery of a climate London brings with it, running into Benedict Cumberbatch at the London Film Festival, eating at Dishoom for half-price, attending a Georgetown Alumni Welcome Happy Hour, wandering the streets of Spitafields Market on a Saturday afternoon, or even sitting at the TimberYard coffee shop in Shoreditch on a Friday afternoon have all been experiences I’m happy to have had taken on and hope to share with friends in the upcoming months. My own set of friends have been made here in London, none of which happen to be British, and it seems like every day makes it harder to interact with people outside of the GPISH Program. In addition, seeing the heightened tensions of clashing cultures, the waxing curiosities of my already too-close-for-comfort peers, and the perpetual, never-ending mountains of readings have all made me wish London could just hold on for an extra second or two. The city has got so much to offer, and it all happens simultaneously, leaving me feeling like I can’t keep up. I thought I didn’t want to live where Whitney from The Hills had to juggle love, work, and school? Indeed, this isn’t New York City–then why does it feel like that’s exactly what I signed up for?

Having had enough of the buzz and no white friends to confide in (American, British, or otherwise), I decided to utilize the reading week given in the middle of each term to clear my head and refocus my energy by trying to find what I love and who I am as a person, not a person in a particular city. So, I came to the city that challenged that very part of me to its core–Madrid. Visiting my host family here for five days, I knew this was a place where I could be left alone with my own thoughts and let them come to a fruition of their own. At first, I wasn’t exactly sure how I would react to being back in Madrid, as the city and I left on good but compromised terms. Coming back to the city, however, brought back such sweet memories and made me realize the inherent value it gave me without asking for much in return. Sure, I cried the moment I realized some days would suck and there was nothing I could do about it, because this was my new home. But I also came to terms with this fact, until I was uprooted from it again and consoled by a change, in typical nomad fashion.

No, this reconvening with the city was different, though, as it reminded me of how I spent countless hours with my friend Esteban on the metro, talking about nothing and everything all at once, or how I used to run through my neighborhood of Salamanca on the Upper East side of Madrid in the spring months to take advantage of the beautifully mesmerizing weather. The smell, the people, the movement–it all suited my pace at the moment and was a sweet, fading memory that came back to life. And I was happy it was there, ready for it to stay with me for the next five days I had to rekindle with the city.

This past weekend in particular has been everything I’ve dreamed for the past two months. Saturday morning I woke up after an 11 hour slumber, ate breakfast with my host family, walked around the city and bought a sweater from C&A, had lunch with the family, drank my usual 4pm espresso and watched a movie that led me to fall into a cat nap (as is Saturday custom in the Gonzalez De Frutos Gomez household), showered, went to dinner at VIPS (the Spanish version of Five Guys) with my host sister, watched another movie, and was in bed from all of the day’s activities by 1am. It was the perfect Saturday, and everything I had wanted from Madrid for the weekend. Leisure and family were two of the most important things I was missing from London, and here it was in Madrid, waiting for me to come and appreciate it.

Sunday has been a similar day, finding Spanish customs to recognize and appreciate for the perspective they bring. At the Indian restaurant my host parents took me to today, I listened to Indian food being ordered with Spanish conceptions of food “give me those empanada appetizers (aka samosas)” and “let’s pair it with some of those spinach pieces (aka pakoras)”. The best part: when I mastered the art of eating Indian food with Spanish etiquette, using my naan de queso (cheese naan) as a scooper for eating Palak (Spinach) curry and rice, instead of the method by which I eat the meal itself.

Pictured above: Lunch at an Indian restaurant with my Spanish host family in October in Madrid.

Having to re-teach and re-learn a lot of my Spanish, these past couple of days have been both a relief and a realization of how much more flexible I’ve become towards accepting new cultures and backgrounds since I studied abroad. Although I was ready to leave Madrid when I did, looking back on the experience I am so thankful I was given the opportunity to be forced into an entirely new culture. Spain made me more appreciative of life, family, friends, and the culmination of those with personal goals, work/school balance, and what culture I want to create a family in for the future. It took me coming back here to be thankful of everything this city has taught me, and I’m hopeful that my time away from London will bring me to a similar conclusion. But for now, the struggle to find a home in this city lingers, and coming back to Heathrow only brings with it the same newfound anxiety, worry, and treachery it did back in mid-August. The only difference? It’s getting colder, and Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is indeed on the horizon.

Travelling Ritually

As someone who identifies as a nomad, I wasn’t too surprised when I finally decided to come back to writing and recollecting my thoughts through this particular medium precisely at the moment I hopped onto a plane and headed to London for grad school for the next three years. Having utilized this very marker I’ve placed upon myself as an impetus for the inception of this blog some years back, I’m constantly reminded of one of the disadvantages being a traveler creates for me: a waning ability to take time and reflect on each of my experiences thoroughly. It’s been two years since I began 19^th and Nomad, and I’d be kidding myself, and cheating you, really, if I filled you in by simply giving you a laundry list of the places I’ve visited this summer post-graduation. Sure, it’s amazing to talk about the streets of downtown San Francisco, or road tripping through the Southeastern region of the US. I could tell you all about the 4^th of July in Chicago, or even the Metropolitan museum I saw in New York City, but all of these buzz words and city names don’t mean a damn thing unless I give them value for myself. And overcoming that was one of the very objectives I hoped to accomplish with my writing.

When I started Georgetown, I told myself I wanted to travel, I wanted to find familiar spaces in new places, and I wanted to do it because I hadn’t been given the opportunity to do so until now. Forced independence has been a blessing and a curse, but I’ve taken it as a challenge to seek out what I couldn’t search for in high school—myself. By no means am I declaring I’ve figured that out now, but I think I have finally carved out the space to at least begin that adventure. But what about time? This is where I’ve been slacking, and where I’ve failed the Jesuit value of reflection I learned all throughout college.

Today has been an odd day, to say the least. When I made the trek out to DC four years ago, I remember feeling anxious, excited, nervous, and awestruck—all at the same time. To top it all off, all of this began a week prior to my move “up North”. But today was different. Until the moment I entered the ramp to board my flight to London, I was calm. I experienced a split second of fear, but even that was quickly alleviated with a text a friend sent me reminding me this would be a good experience. People asked me throughout the course of the day how I felt about moving to London, and when I really sat down to think about it on my 8 hour long flight, I didn’t experience any of the feelings they thought I carried alongside my luggage. I still don’t sense these sentiments, and, for a while, I couldn’t seem to figure out why. Then I realized it’s because I haven’t been traveling ritually.

I attended a two-week program this past July called the College Program on Islam (CPOI). One of the lectures revolved around an anthropological approach to rituals, wherein we learned that rituals are both communal and individualized experiences. The value they hold for a group of people need not be the same value placed by a particular person, and this value can even vary from experience to experience. What is that value? Precisely what you make of it. The beauty of a ritual is that you ascribe your own meaning to it, allowing it to have the power you wish it to hold over you…Every. Single. Time. Rituals are about meaning making, and communities create them as a man-made medium to better understanding God.

When I applied this ideology outside of the realm of religion, it continued to make sense for me. Making traveling my ritual through this new lens will partly help me find my own way of learning about and connecting with God. More than this, however, it will be significant in helping me better understand who I am, as a part of God’s creation. Once I fell into the trap of conducting the ritual of traveling without ascribing it the value I wanted it to hold for that particular experience, the feelings of anxiety, excitement, nervousness disappeared. And this was why I couldn’t seem to feel anything about my upcoming endeavor to the UK. Having now recognized that traveling is my ritual to better understand God, and myself, I’ve quite conveniently cut a lot of work out for myself; primarily, I now have to start the meaning making process. This used to come naturally, as awe and bewilderment of the unknown and expansive world amazed me and pushed me to test my limits and boundaries. Now, though, I have become familiar with the art of travel. And so the labor begins.

So the question still remains: what value do I want to put on this experience? Well, I want to highlight that I’m not doing this for anybody but myself. Given the option to begin working in the real world or pursue graduate school, I chose work. I signed a contract, sold my soul, call it whatever you want, but I was prepared to take on the outside world and apply everything I had learned. And yet, here I am on a plane to London. Inevitably, the drive to seek out this experience instead came from battling forced independence with self-serving independence, selfishness if you will. I decided to pursue this degree and create the next three years of my life purely for myself. No expectations from my peers, no pressure from my family, and no attraction to the city for sheer exploration. No, this is a pre-meditated and conscious decision to spend time learning for myself and doing exactly what I love in the form I have found it to best cater to me. This decision has come with its own consequences. Leaving behind friends has not been easy, and I’d be crazy if I didn’t mention what a financial burden this will continue to be on my parents. Given all of these implications, though, I still know I have the unique ability to grow and think exactly the way I want to, and be challenged every step of the way. And that’s the value I want this adventure to hold for me.

I am a nomad, guided by her logic but limited by her words, the range of vernacular having been built and developed throughout the span of the past 21 years. I am all of that, and I still don’t quite understand who I am in relation to the world. And that’s why I’ve chosen to make the decision to push myself out of my comfort zone once again, each time for a longer span, in hopes something will stick and allow me to make the meaning I’ve wanted to make of such a program. And this time, I plan on making the ritual more meaningful by documenting its impact on me every step of the way, as much as I possibly can. This is the promise I make to myself, and the beautiful irony of this decision is that, if I fail, I answer to nobody but myself. Often times, though, the greatest critic of all is indeed the self. My ritual will last three years, and I may not be able to feel the excitement right now, but I sure as hell am ready to make some meaning out of it. And so, it begins…

It’s Been So Long Since Last We Met

…And yet, recent life events have prompted a returned interest, and hopefully continued commitment, to blogging about my life experiences and how they have as well as will continue to pan out since my coming of age into adulthood per American legal guidelines. A trip down memory lane to some of my previous posts was all it really took to remind me how fascinating reading about your own thoughts can be ex post facto. I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t kept up as much as I should, but a quick summary should patch over any gaping holes since two summers ago, and whatever is missing in between…well, it must have not been important enough to remember. (Disclaimer: depth and writing etiquette decrease exponentially throughout the course of this blog post. Eloquence to follow in future)

I’ll reiterate here (mainly for myself) that I write to process, remember, warn, and reflect on experiences, events, and epiphanies I come across as they surface and become apparent. Although not the original intention of 19th and Nomad, I think it’s safe to say the true revival and vibrancy of these stories can only faithfully exist while I do what I have come to love the most–travel. Probably the most risk I will ever take at any given point, the thrill and adrenaline running through my veins as I think about a new city, country, or even flight path continues to be the most I dare to venture into, and I’ve come to accept that it will take baby steps before I will be where others are with their wanderlust escapades. For now, I will indulge myself as much as I can and say that if the shoe fits, then leave it be…

So, what all has changed in the past two years?

1) Hoya Saxa: Well, for starters, I graduated college. That inexplainable, gut-wrenching, yet unforgettable four years of my life at Georgetown–it’s over. I loved (and hated) so many parts of it, and it’s made me such a better person (I hope), someone who can now actively think while doing, engage in dialogue while embracing difference, and of course learn how to reflect daily. I’m also cognizant, however, that once college is over, a new chapter must begin, and so I’ve handled the end of it with grace and humility. But also because…

2) The British Are Coming: I’m going to college. No, not back to Georgetown (do you really think I’d make you read a paragraph for nothing?), but this time to the Institute for Ismaili Studies for the Graduate Program on Islamic Studies and Humanities (GPISH). Yes, it’s got its own stigmas attached, but if there is one thing I learned throughout my Georgetown experience, it’s that I truly love theology. The academic discipline within which religion resides and can be debated, while flourishing among intellectual beings to produce an even more fruitful and mysterious product of greater enigma-filled uncertainty, excites me. It shows me that there is something else beyond the traditional path of financial success some college graduates seek out today. And while that is never a bad thing to achieve (especially deep into six figures of student loan debt), this is a sacrifice I want to make to risk learning something I value and feel passionately towards.

Holding a Master’s degree may have its own perks, but learning about Islamic Studies is what I crave, intertwining it with global health development and medical ethics is what I yearn, and the product of those two in a three-year, fully-funded scholarship in London seems too beautifully packaged for me to not take on. I’ll be studying internationally, traversing through Europe, taking on new risks, and getting the chance to do it all knowing what I know now post-study abroad in Spain, which would have left me nothing short of foolish if I let this opportunity fall by the wayside.

Now, in all fairness, I did entertain the road well travelled. In fact, I accepted this path as my life until the end of April, when I found out I got into grad school. I attended the job fairs, prepared for the case interviews, got the referrals of friends I knew, and even contacted a myriad of people whose first names I barely remembered enough to forge connections and networks I knew to be temporal, all for the sake of securing a job by graduation. I got my first offer back in March, with a data analytics consulting firm that supplanted me with a 6-month international training opportunity prior to starting work.

After being accepted to grad school, though, even my dream of joining health care consulting in San Francisco, which soon thereafter became a viable reality, seemed unmatched to the opportunity I had in front of me to pursue a Master’s in Global Health and Islamic Studies. As I thought about the cost of foregoing a job that not only provided a competitive salary but also the stability I had been anticipating for all of my senior year, I tried to imagine what the flip side of the coin could look like too, realistically. Being broke, homeless, and homesick for the next three years in a dreary and unpleasant city like London wasn’t exactly the lifestyle I had imagined, but I knew that if I did it, it would only have been wise for me to take on this job in SF because it made the most logical sense. And for once in my life, I wanted to do something because it felt right, not because it made the most sense.

The next three years will by no stretch of the imagination be a breeze. A rigorous course load, mastering Arabic at the age of 21 (well beyond the peak language acquisition age of 14), indulging in a city I do not have high hopes of even remotely liking, seeking out a culture I’ve been taught to abhor since birth, and making ends meet with extremely limited financial means will all pervade having the quintessential “study abroad experience of a lifetime” (but thankfully, we already know that’s a hoax RE: the past 12 blog posts). For the first time in my life, though, I know I am doing this for myself. Not for my parents, for my future financial stability, for my education, for the wellbeing of my kids to come, but solely for me. This is the only chance I get to be selfish, hold off on those horrid adult responsibilities a little bit longer, and embrace for maybe what will be the last time ever how exciting and adventurous travel and knowledge and the culmination of the two can preciously be. This is my last chance at being bound by freedom, and like hell was I going to give that up for three years worth of paychecks in a line of work I will be doing for the rest of my life anyway. Cheers to that, my friends.

3) Happy Never After: Let me also let you know nothing with respect to my relationship status has changed, although I will say this has become a burning question and quite a point of contention among the common public in recent months. I often feel like I’m transcending into a Bollywood movie whenever talking to brown people, as either they will be a) engaged, b) involved in too committed of a relationship for me to fathom them not being engaged already, or c) questioning me as to why I am not in their type of proposed engagement/commitment arrangement already. The rationale behind this? Well, as I have already gotten a degree, I’m now at the tender and ripe age to officially accept proposals and think about marriage.

This is all fine and swell, but I didn’t intend on being forced to find a boyfriend for the sake of checking it off my to-do list, particularly because it occupies a line item on your agenda at this point in time. Quite frankly, it bothers me that there is an expectation that, now of all times, the utmost importance and critical eye is kept upon the pursuing of a male counterpart as an accessory every girl must have as she ages into her twenties. Did I mention the next three years of my life are for me? If a male companion chooses to join me, fabulous. But I do not intend on scoping one out simply because the societal norm has raised it to a top five “Currently Trending”.

Summary of Findings:
–Georgetown has now become my Alma Mater–Hoya Saxa to that.
–London (or myself) will have a rude awakening of intervention in approximately two months.
–I firmly practice the ideology that men should be looked at as companions, not accessories.
–Spain has left me more emotionally exhausted and rigid than before (to be continued later)

It’s like I never even stopped writing…

Why I Travel: A Tribute to My Mom and Dad

Throughout the past twenty-three days, I have had the luxury of visiting over seven different cities in Europe. Average that out, and I was in a different city about every third day for the past three weeks. And throughout those past twenty-three days, I have learned things that I would have never learned through any textbook, research paper, friend who visited XYZ city before me, or even travel guidebook. Hungarians love their goulash (a beef stew with tons of paprika), and even more so love ripping off tourists on their staple food, but Frommer’s never tells you that, does it? Or how about the fact that in Prague, 16-24 year olds will spend a casual Monday night during midterms at the club listening to Red Lights by Tiesto, just because its how they spend their evenings? It just isn’t possible to understand a city unless you visit it, and although I had heard this many a time before beginning my European travels for the semester, after about the fourth city, I was tired of traveling and didn’t even know what the purpose of visiting all of these new places was.

I had a conversation about this very topic with a friend named Julian while in Prague during this twenty-three day adventure as we stood on the Charles Bridge, overlooking the entire city and seeing our own reflection in the Vlatva River. Julian was a far more credible world traveler than myself, and furthermore, someone who has fallen into a state of wanderlust during his semester in Salamanca, Spain. We were both heading back from a five-story nightclub, and during our walk to the hostel, we stopped for a moment to enjoy the beautifully lit Prague Castle, illuminated by the Charles Bridge. Our tour guide earlier that morning mentioned the lights were all thanks to a British band that walked along the path with the Czech President in 2006 during their world tour concert. When they asked the President why this historical gem was not given more attention to the eye by being illuminated, the President responded that the country’s was in a state of economic crisis and could not afford any enhancements. The band members then decided to fund the project of putting lights all across the bridge and up to the Prague Castle. And now, every Czech citizen knows who The Beatles are…

The St. Charles Bridge in Prague, Czech Republic on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-April.

Cool tidbit, but what did it do for me? Pretty much nothing, except be squeezed into this blog post by sheer matter of the fact that I get to write about whatever I feel like in this space, since well, its my own. I felt selfish in all honesty, seeing all of these incredible sights and taking some awesomely Instagram pictures to show the world how much fun I was having frolicking around the European continent. Of course it all looked so exciting, precisely being the reason why so many of my friends told me they were “so jealous of all the adventures!” or calling me “a world traveler”. It was all flattering, really, but spending all this money, seeing these new places, getting to know new cultures—what was the purpose of all of it? 

When I finally confided in Julian, he gave me a quite generic response that I put aside immediately in my head. “It makes you a more cultured person,” was his take on the matter. “You get to see all of these things and erase some of the stereotypes you have. You learn so much about other cultures, and then when people ask you about them, you can explain it better because you’ve had hands-on experience, and then you can teach them about the lessons you learned in XYZ country.” Well that was all fine and well, but it still felt unfair. Unfair that I had the opportunity to go all around Europe and “be more cultured”, while the very people that had given me the opportunity to do all of this, my parents, didn’t have that chance. Not only did I feel selfish, but I also felt like my parents had to vicariously live through my own experiences abroad, thirty years after they made one brave journey to America and hoped that would be the way to give me all of this. Their efforts hadn’t gone to waste, but I knew they still wanted to one day be able to see the world for themselves, and for that lack thereof in their lives, I had no one to blame but myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love the fact that I get to explore so many different cities, as well as be exposed to all of the cultures and people that Europe has to offer, but at the end of the day, I know this was also my parents’ dream. They never said it, and they never will, because for them, the chance for me to go to Berlin is like them going to Berlin, simply due to the fact that I am their daughter and they are so proud of me. Yet, I can’t help but go to a new country and think, “Wow, Mom would love being in this train right now and admire the German countryside” or “This is incredible. I bet Dad would love knowing that the Alhambra Palace traces its roots back to the Muslim Empire in the 8^th century.” Both my parents have worked extremely hard, and endured almost twenty-five years of physically straining labor together so that I could do something great like this, so much so that their own physical condition isn’t susceptible to traveling anymore. It’s ironic to be honest, and moreover, a debt that I will forever owe to them.

Saturday evening sunset over the Alhambra Palace in Granada, Spain during late-April.

So, on my way back from Seville, Spain today on a high-speed train called the Ave, a high-speed train that can get up to 300 kilometers per hour and an interesting epithetical fact that only my dad would be so intrigued in knowing, I write this blog post as a tribute to my parents. To not only thank them for all the love, emotional support, words of encouragement, and sincere affection they have given me throughout this entire experience, but to finally have found a purpose for all of my travels—them. Why do I travel to so many different cities? To teach them about it, to get them to remember that the world is indeed a kind place, despite the fact that it has not been so to them. The lessons I’ve learned? They’re all things my parents already know, but just need to be reminded of, and since I never knew them to begin with, I have to travel to find them for myself and relay them to the people whom I love and care for the most.

Whenever a person visits you in your hometown or a place you are quite familiar with, it’s always your job to be a good host and show them the best sights, the coolest restaurants, and the most interesting facts to make them feel the most like a local possible. I want to do the same for my parents, but since I have deemed myself a nomad, well it’s now my job to travel the world and see all of my “hometown” to tell my parents what the coolest cities, the nicest people, and the best food is and where it comes from. It’s my job to host my parents in the world now, so I guess the purpose of traveling is to explore my hometown thoroughly enough to do a good job of his, if and when my parents can indeed travel one day. It’s a debt I am more than happy to pay back to my parents, because I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to figure out my hometown for myself. And so, this is why I travel, and I thank my parents for letting me do this every day, not because I love them but because I admire their selfless nature to leave the legacy of exploration to their youngest little girl.

Weekends In Madrid: Mythbusters Edition

You know you’ve all heard about it—the constant drinking culture, siestas (the Spanish word for ‘naps’) every afternoon, clubs all night—but have you ever wondered what rumors about the Spanish culture are indeed true? Have no fear; this post will hopefully solve all of the puzzling pieces. I even threw in some more Spanish phrases that I’ve caught onto and amuse me (just for kicks). But most importantly, it all reveals something great about Spaniards–the motivation and drive to do exactly what they want.

Weekdays:

The weekday timetable in Spain is quite continuous, albeit slower than that in the US. Most Spaniards, including my host family, wake up around 6:30am. I “indulge” myself in this dreaded ritual every Tuesday and Wednesday for my 8:30am class, a whole two hours beforehand. Yes, friends, one-hour transport time is indeed a fact. Waking up at 6:30am means downstairs at 7am for breakfast. The entire process of eating breakfast takes about twenty minutes or so, as a solid ten-minute prep time is necessary. Out the door at 7:30am to catch the Metro, Spain’s public transportation system. Although some journeys can take only about 30 minutes, it’s always good to allocate some buffer time. Walking to the metro and getting from the stop to your destination takes another 10-12 minutes as well, so planning ahead is crucial for a Type A personality like myself.

The quintessential Spaniard works from 8:30am-2:00pm or so. Then, he will get a lunch break for about 2 hours. Seems crazy, I know, but eating lunch at home is also normal. My host dad Jacobo, for example, is an ophthalmologist at a local city hospital, so he typically comes home around 3pm, and then begins what he calls the obligatory post-lunch ritual of the day: coffee and chocolate while reading the newspaper (fact). The little kick of espresso in the mid-afternoon helps balance the huge meals during lunch and gets him ready to head back to the hospital by 4pm to finish off the day, which will end around 7pm. This timeframe is normal for those who prefer to take their midday lunch break at home, while others may work straight from 8:30am-4pm and eat a late lunch after work, as my host mom Mercedes does.

In the case of Jacobo, coming home around 7:30pm or so leaves about a solid hour and some change until dinner. He has a schedule to fill this hour: Tennis on Tuesdays, Golf on Fridays, grocery shopping on Wednesdays, errands some of the other days, you get the idea. Showering before dinner is normal, and something I had to get used to again after my three years at Georgetown where I would shower when I was dirty, whether it was 2am or 4:30pm. 9pm means dinner time in the Frutos de Gonzalez household, and this wonderful ritual lasts until about 10pm. Kids will come home around 5:45pm and do homework, shower, and then have dinner, so that after food comes…[another siesta? (MYTH)]–TV time!

Ah, how admired the TV is in Spain! Not just for futból games, but also Spanish telenovelas (soap operas), American episode series (MasterChef and Breaking Bad are the top hits in the house right now), or even some good ‘old Clint Eastwood, my host dad’s favorite actor. TV relaxes the mind, purifies the soul, and means lying on the couch and doing an absolute nothing for about an hour. 11pm means lights out for the kiddies, because they get back up at 7am to do the school thing again, and the parents head off with them because 7 hours and some midday espresso are all one needs to get through the weekdays. But the weekends? Oh, those are a different story…

Weekends: Young Blood Style

The weekend pattern of events means party all day and night–MYTH. It actually depends on whether or not you are a jóven (youngster) or a parent with a family and obligations. If the latter, as in the case of my host parents, weekend mornings consist of golf lessons en el campo (literally, the meadow, but this means the golf course) with the kids, then home around 2 or 3pm for family lunch, to go upstairs and do that TV thing around 4pm with some coffee and dessert. This is where your looming questions finally get answered, because yes, this awkward time between lunch and dinner calls for some piece and quiet in the living room, which inevitably leads to the ever-known Spanish naps known as siestas—fact. From about 5pm-7pm, napping is allowed, and even encouraged, in the home, as it is fairly silent and if sleeping is not done, then homework is (so obviously, I opt for the nap when given a choice).

But wouldn’t sleeping after lunch put you into a deep slumber? Well, this is where the Spaniards have it all figured out, because remember that obligatory shot-of-espresso ritual before nap time? It prevents Spaniards from falling into too deep of a sleep. And by 7:30pm, the house is a ruckus again with kids shouting, parents running around the house, and more TV being watched. 9pm rolls around with all of the chaos, and look at that—it’s time for dinner! Saturday night movies are common in my house, so if my host sister Marina doesn’t salir por la noche (go out for the night), she sometimes participates. Dinner with family friends, theater shows, and other day trips are obviously scattered throughout various weekends as well, but this is what a traditional weekend in my Spanish home looks like.

Naturally, the college kids don’t follow this sequence of events on the weekends. Sure, they live at home and commute to school, which is very different than many private universities in the US, but does that mean they don’t go out? MYTH. Indeed, the contrary is true. Friday nights, after school and dinner at 9pm, most Spaniards will shower, get ready, and head out around midnight. Meeting up with friends at a bar is the norm, as everyone will go bar hopping with tapas (finger foods, essentially) for about an hour or so. Before the metro closes at 1:30am, a destination is chosen, and everyone will head off to the club for the evening. Most clubs open around 1am, but jovenes start to file in around 2am or 3am, and it’s common that the clubs will not close until about 6am. So, Spanish youngsters will follow suit and typically stay out until 6am, not because they particularly like to wait for Last Call, but because that’s when the Metro opens again, and who really wants to pay 12-15 Euros to get home when you can just wait for the Metro and get back home for free? Getting home puts you at about 7am, which is—you guessed it—is breakfast time! The quintessential young madrileño will finish off his night right with breakfast and head to bed around 7:30am, to wake up around 2:30 or 3pm, just in time for–you guessed it, lunch! Sometimes, they’ll even participate in the parent-version weekend ritual of lunch, TV, siesta, and dinner, to get ready and head back out for the night if they just didn’t get their fill the night before.

Now this is definitely the epitome of Spanish weekends; most students don’t actually do this often because they have exams to study for, papers to write, family to hang out with, and so on with the duties and obligations of a normal person. But if anyone ever asks you to take them out for what a true local would do out on the town, just know madrileña style is always a safe bet for an eventful evening..and morning.

What I find the most important to note from this entire schpeel on how Spaniards live their lives is not the uniqueness of their never-ending nightlife or the importance of a mid-day espresso (although I have learned both of these lessons and more from my host family). Rather, I think the most important lesson comes from the idea that these individuals are able to do exactly what they want in order to live their lives to the fullest. Don’t like that sport and would rather drink coffee with your friends on a Tuesday afternoon? Do it. Don’t want to go out and prefer staying home with your parents on a Saturday night? Totally acceptable. I don’t mean to say that these actions are not the norm in the US, but I think often times, I find myself at least, facing the dilemma of doing what I think I want, what I actually want, and what I have to do. The last of these is often the path I choose when making decisions, but this also leads to jealousy or unhappiness because someone else naturally does what I would have really wanted to do myself. In other cases, doing what I think I want may lead to not liking it, and the fear of failure often undercuts embarking on this option often. In the end, though, doing what I actually want also seems to have its drawbacks, as we all know I will not get to be a Gates Millennium Scholar anymore, no matter how badly I might want it.

A friend of mine recently read me a speech she was writing for her upcoming graduation. While trying to formulate her thoughts, we spoke about what advice she wanted to convey to her senior class the last time they would all be together. She mentioned that she wanted to remind them to do what they wanted to do in their lives and not wait around for other people to take up the chances of following their own passions. “So many times, people end up doing what is best for them, but the problem with that is that it leaves them unhappy,” she said. I thought about this, remembering all the times I had previously heard the same advice and pushed it aside because of fear. That’s so hard in theory, I always told myself. You can’t just follow your passions all the time, because then you’ll end up broke. It’s not something the idealists like to hear, but since I am a realist, I didn’t mind being the one to say it. Yet, her words finally made sense. Being in Spain, I have learned what doing what you want really means, and it’s not just skipping three Tuesday classes to go to London for the weekend or staying out until 5am when you have a 9am conference call the next morning, it’s about doing what you want to do because you know it’s what you want. And that’s the toughest part–figuring out what you want, while still believing you won’t fail while looking for it.

Throughout my time here, I have tried my hardest to be more open and do what I think I might have wanted to, to only find out I no longer want to do it and wish I could back out. Sometimes, this isn’t possible because of uncontrollable factors, but something that a good friend here told me was that a lot of times, no harm no foul. If it doesn’t kill someone, it’s okay to say no. And most of the time, people understand because they know you’re not passionate about it anymore.

When I look back at the madrileño way of life on something as simple as how to enjoy the weekend, I realize how easy it is to do what you want and say no when you don’t. All of my life, I have been trained to do what is best for me, what will get me the best job, what my trajectory should be based on those of my close competitors, and I often times forget how it is the little things that do indeed make us happy. Don’t want to go out for the weekend? I shouldn’t, just because I am in Spain and feel like I need to be out “enjoying” life. Tired and don’t want to meet up with that friend I said I would? Tell the truth, apologize, and find another time; she will understand. I don’t have to follow my passion or do what I want in the largest sense of it all to make my life my own, but rather fulfill the smallest of my personal desires to make the most of my experience. Some people are meant to be social, others find the same fulfillment in curling up on the couch and watching Los Misterios de Laura, a Spanish version of Nancy Drew, with the good ‘ole fam. It’s not always about following your passion in something huge, like your career, but just choosing to eat a sandwich on a Tuesday afternoon instead of a salad because you’re craving it more. ‘Doing what you want’ has various faces to its name, and I do have to say that it took a couple of “typical madrileña weekends” for me to understand something as simple as this.

Today, I want to quit the FOMO (fear of missing out) feeling and enjoy hanging out with my host family, because those are the people I truly love and want to get to know more throughout the two months I have left here. Traveling has been an amazing experience, and I have wholeheartedly enjoyed it, but this family is only mine for six months, while the world awaits me even when I am thirty and bored with my job. So, step one of doing what I want: skipping out on a trip to Morocco for the five day weekend and staying at home. The host fam will actually be gone on vacation, but that’s okay. Because I will do something else that I have really wanted to do: become a true local and see the hidden treasures of Madrid. There is still so much left to see and such little time remaining, and next weekend, I plan to do what I want, by myself, to make this experience my own and not Facebook’s.

The End of the Beginning.

I’ve actively avoided writing this post for hours by procrastinating my time (I’m a college student, sue me) by watching marathon episodes of Suits, packing away my life in yet another triad of suitcases, and filling my day with endless lists and last-minute to-do’s. Upon showering and rekindling with my electronics, I came across a Facebook message recently written by my best friend Salima, with whom I have spent the past three weeks of my winter break.

It wasn’t the fact that she had written me something, or even that I was counting down the hours until my departure, but that she so succinctly and sincerely wrote every thought I could only hope to express to her, that showed me I had received one of the most heartfelt notes of my entire life. The core strength of her emotions touched me to the point where it encapsulated all of the fleeting thoughts I had that say, and I couldn’t even finish the first paragraph without so many tears in my eyes that the screen in front of me blurred completely, prohibiting reading the note any further. This is what it feels like to be homesick. This is what it feels like to be away from your family. This is what all the international students talk about. Salima wrote: “Just now, it finally hit me that you’re leaving.” And that was when it finally hit me, too.

Anxiety, nervousness, impatience, fear of the unknown. These are all common sentiments that many study abroad students feel before leaving home for an entire semester, right? But here was the catch–I didn’t even have a home. Home meant nothing to me because I am a nomad, given the ability to spring from place to place without recognizing and connecting with the emotions others around me feel when we separate from one another. We’ll always be able to call/text/Skype each other, I would tell myself. Yet finally, when all of these methods of communication have been made so much more difficult, and challenged my ability to connect with my friends and family as easily as before, the struggle to connect on an emotional level became real, too.  And that’s when I knew I defined my home not by the place I had grown up or lived in, but where I felt most comfortable, most relied by, and most at ease.

Indeed, I am excited to venture off to Madrid for the next five months, I would be silly to say otherwise. Yet, what I do know is that Madrid is unfamiliar to me. It’s a place where I can choose to either make a home or miss my own, depending on how I embrace the experience. In my head, there are two options: I can either sulk over all that I will be missing out on throughout the upcoming months back in the US, or I can take a chance and await the opportunities that will unfold in what can potentially be the next home of my life. Being a nomad has taught me that the challenge is actually much broader and complex than finding stability. As The Nomad, my objective is to make the entire world my new home, to become comfortable with every place I encounter. I should strive to become so familiar with every country and city possible so as to, one day, share it with someone close. That is when I have truly harnessed being a nomad and simply allow another to indulge in the hidden treasures I’ve found for myself and them. Whether that be a best friend, a soulmate, or even a complete stranger, this is my new and refined prerogative in the time I spend exploring the art of travel, and I have found that Madrid is my first test to see if I am a well-fit candidate to take on this nomadic lifestyle.

I have taken this responsibility on with humility and pride, and I can ask for nothing less than an open world full of hidden treasures, waiting to be shared with me. I hope to be the stranger, best friend, or soulmate of another with which to share these next five months and be touched by the gifts I await to both give and receive. I don’t expect to find my own partner in crime to share my excitement for travel with just yet, but rather engage in my adventures enough to at least be sure it is a passion I find worth pursuing. This is what I have longed for, for so many years, and now the time has finally come. The exposé of my story has only just finished; I have yet to seek out the formal introduction and begin the body of my expeditions in the coming months. For now, it’s only the end of the beginning. But doesn’t that mean today is where my book begins? Alas, the rest is still unwritten…