I’ve been thinking about it since the 10^th grade.  I was so sure of it and it was in fact one of the only things I did know at the time, so it drove my college search.  Though my parents went to college, it was something they had never known and will never know.  I took the opportunity for granted; I had just assumed it would happen.  Well, it did.  Abroad happened, and almost 15 weeks ago I found myself pacing around a hotel in Madrid, frantically dialing my mom’s cell because I’m in Madrid and I’m here for the next three months and I’m nev

I meant my last post from Nantes to be stereotypically sentimental.  It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my bedroom in my host family’s house, which won’t be “my” bedroom tomorrow night.  Almost done packing (my backpack looks like I pumped it up with helium and weighs in at a figure which swiftly debunks the helium theory).  Still composing the farewell letter I’m going to leave for my host family…

It was after the first draft of this letter that I realized there was no way I was going to get through good-byes without shedding tears.

I know it’s typical, cheesy, ‘abroad’ rhetoric, but I cannot wrap my head around the fact that I will be landing in New York (OK, turns out I’m flying into Jersey) tomorrow afternoon. As quickly as this semester went, it feels as if I have been away from home for an eternity. Natürlich, there are things I miss about home: my cat, english, and the availability of any type of great food–and I can’t wait to get home to hug my mom and dad and friends. But there is so much I am going to miss about Freiburg. The schnitchzel, the trams, Feiering.

Between completing term papers, and checking things off of my “things-I-must-do-before-leaving-Berlin” list, this last week has proven to be a chaotic blur.

I meant to write a post during the last week of my program, but as so often happens, life – in other words, final exams and enjoying my time with my friends – caught up with me. So here I am, cozied up in a pensão in Lisboa, reminiscing about my semester. I am returning to Madrid soon for a few days’ time to enjoy my city with one of my very best friends and to finally try home-cooked cocido madrileño with my host family, so I haven’t said goodbye yet.

Last week I executed a bucket list of “lasts,” bidding a tearful farewell to my most beloved

Come il cacio sui maccheroni (just about perfect…)

I feel consummately sorry for French schoolkids.  At least the high schoolers at the school where I’m doing my internship: their assigned reading-and-comprehension document last week was called “I still believe in the American dream,” and they had to write a commentary and then come in and discuss whether they thought the American dream still existed.  With the American assistant (me).  What part of this situation could possibly be awkward?