I didn’t sleep before my flight. Instead I said tearful goodbyes and started strategically packing at the last minute to ensure my jar of knockoff Nutella wouldn’t explode all over my jeggings. I took a cab to the airport with another girl from my program, and the cabdriver probably contemplated speeding into a brick wall as two American girls wept and sniffled while passing each cervecería, each bridge and plaza for the last time til who-knows-when. After that I completely stopped crying, because my face hurt and I was too sleep deprived to have feelings. Oh, and a thought: Why do girls my age get so dolled up to sit on an airplane for 10 hours? I was a real coyote ugly when I rolled into the airport at 5 a.m. Friday, makeup-free with my worst-fitting pair of jeans, an over-sized Sevilla FC T-shirt and beat-up black combat boots. I looked like a meth dealer; everyone else in line for the Iberia check-in was on their way to the Golden Globes.

Being home didn’t feel strange. Everything was the way it was when I left, minus the snow and the ice and the misery of winter. I didn’t forget how to drive (although I had a nightmare that I did). I got my new driver’s license, I ran a marathon of errands, I saw my aunt and uncle, saw one of my best friends, went to my little brother’s prom photos and moved to Iowa. Perhaps I’ve been so busy that there hasn’t been enough time for my new reality (or my return to this reality) to sink in, because now it’s starting to feel weird. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more melancholy than I am excited to be back on this side of the Atlantic. After four months I was finally starting to feel at home in Sevilla. My biggest (and perhaps only) regret is that I didn’t study abroad for a full year.

I don’t want to spit up the same recycled study-abroad-experience dribble that everyone has heard from That Annoying Friend Who Went to Europe. I don’t think that Europe, or Spain, is superior to the U.S.; nor do I think that my own country is superior to Spain. I just know that if I hadn’t broken my Midwestern bubble and gone overseas, I would be short not only the new sights and travels, but the opportunity to completely reevaluate my perspectives and myself. Not everyone I studied with agrees with me — some people liked their semester in Sevilla, but aren’t so in love with it, or so affected by it, in the same ways I was. Before I came abroad I was suffocating in my own mental routine, obsessing over the same petty concerns and insecurities, and getting out of here and seeing the world shook me up precisely when I needed a hard slap across the face. And I think I’m better for it.

I know that I could write another 2,000 words without ever being able to form an adequate summary of what the past four months mean to me. I suppose I’ll save myself the certain disappointment by skipping that summary altogether. I miss Sevilla madly, along with all the people I befriended there. This isn’t some kind of knee-jerk sadness caused by being taken out of one environment and plopped into another. Of course I’ll slip out of my mopey state, because this is my life now — at least until December, I’m living in Iowa. I’m already two days deep into summer school, slowly piecing together my new bedroom, reconnecting with old friends and being distracted by the daily-life crap I haven’t thought much about since December (grocery shopping, cars that leak antifreeze, buying a bed, pending job interviews). But I also know that one day returning to Sevilla isn’t so much a desire, but a necessity. I’m a debilitatingly (not a word, not sorry) indecisive person, but I can guarantee you that my return to Spain is a statement, not a question.

And thanks again to our legion of followers who actually kept up with our (or just my) narcissistic nonsense. The five of you have been great. I contemplated starting a blog of my own, since I’ll miss this little son-of-a-bitch now that the semester’s done, but then I realized that if Brittney and I have a combined legion of five people, a Lauren-only blog would maybe have 2.5, assuming the Brittney-Lauren legion distribution is equal. So don’t worry about it, you’ll never hear from me again after this. LOL JK except for when I continue to write incessantly for anywhere that wants me (or doesn’t want me) until I finally snag the writing career I’ve been dreaming of since age five (the same career that I’ve been depending on since age 18, when I made the ill-advised decision to become a journalism major). Yep, I’m not going anywhere. Besides Sevilla, as soon as I determine my way back.

Besos, kisses, and lots of other flagrant displays of affection,

Lauren

I could go on in agonizing detail about my horrific sleep schedule, the way I’ve been abusing my body between coffee and sleep aids while trying to simultaneously study, pack and not cry every time I realize it’s the last time I’ll be doing/seeing/speaking with X, Y or Z. But we’ll leave it at that. People read this, in theory, and perhaps the more maudlin details are best saved to wallow over on my own.

I’m not ready to leave Sevilla, and it feels like I’m being yanked from this place far too early. The taxi to the airport comes at 4:45 a.m. on Friday. By late Friday afternoon Central time, I will (hopefully) land (on time) at ORD in Chicago. By Sunday afternoon, I’ll be moved into my Iowa City apartment. The proximity of all this activity has forced me to snap out of denial, and apparently all I’m missing now are the proper coping mechanisms to accept it.

• The climate.
• The overall beauty of this place. The Cathedral, the Giralda, the graffiti-covered path along Guadalquivir River, the Triana Bridge…. the churro stand at the end of the Triana Bridge.
• Cruzcampo…? I’m slightly more Spanish than I was in January, by virtue of my recently developed love for this shittastic beer.
• The fact that my life is a sitcom. Actually, there are parts of this that I won’t miss. But sometimes I find myself in such ridiculous situations that I have to look around and wonder when the tech guy is going to press the “canned laughter” button.
• Drinking in public/never being carded.
• The Misadventures of Lauren and Francesca. Enough said. Subcategory of this bullet point: abusing the word “jovenes” and speaking like a true Trianera, miarma.
• Constantly improving my Spanish. Living in Iowa doesn’t lend itself well to interacting with native Spanish speakers.
• The overall life philosophy. People just don’t stress as much as Americans do. I can’t say that Spain has killed my pragmatism, but I have started thinking more whimsically since I’ve been here. Although I guess this philosophy also explains Andalucía’s staggering unemployment rate… meh.

Things I Won’t Miss About Spain

• The symphony of god-awful noises in my neighborhood: Triana’s anonymous pan flute artist, the neighbor’s dog who is fortunate to still be alive, the other neighbor whose screaming children obsessively listen to Ke$ha (bless her soul), the guy who clanks giant slabs of metal together midday.
• The occasional important communication that gets hopelessly lost in translation.
• Semi-regular cat calls, ass grabs and harassment from slimy viejos verdes and gilipollas.
• Siesta. Because I never actually sleep, and I can’t even buy a freakin’ pack of gum since the whole country shuts down between 2 and 5 p.m.
• The lack of culinary diversity. I would do unspeakable things for a burrito, for some shrimp tempura, for some grapefruit.
• Never being able to articulate precisely what I’m thinking. Although I may not appear excessively eloquent, I’m obsessed with words and sentences and the way they’re constructed. I have a nuanced way of speaking in English that simply doesn’t translate in Spanish, which also kills a lot of the bad jokes I try to make to Spaniards.
• The overall life philosophy. Going back to the siesta: how does a country operate around a three-hour midday nap? Why is it inconceivable to propose a dinner time earlier than 10 p.m.? Sometimes I’m enamored with this idea of, “Hey we’re in Andalucía, live it up! Don’t take life so seriously!!!” Other times, I want to make this country a chore chart and impose a few new house rules; give the place a sense of order.

PS — The volcanic ash cloud strikes back, this time on Spain. Damnit. And I thought I had escaped it’s wrath… here’s hoping that I can get out of Madrid come Friday morning.
PPS — Ohmygod Friday morning. It’s 10:30 p.m. on Monday and I’ve gone all day without sobbing. 10 points for Lauren. 10 more points if I make it to midnight.

As of ~1 p.m. local time I’ve checked off the first of several important goodbyes, this one to Pedro. Our farewell proceeded the consumption of baked potatoes the size of 10-pound babies, Silent Bob en español and a win for the Phoenix Suns. I was instructed not to cry. Although I wasn’t completely capable of complying with this request, I managed to mostly keep my shit together. Pedro pointed out that if I’m struggling now, a week before I even leave for the airport, I’m going to be a wholly dysfunctional disaster come 7 a.m. Friday morning at the Aeropuerto Sevilla. I tend to agree.

Now it’s almost 3:30 p.m. here. I’m still in pajamas, and the alarming amount Tori Amos coming from my iTunes (“From the Choirgirl Hotel” and “Little Earthquakes”?!?! Christ) is a testament to my dire need (and fervent desire) for a siesta. Finals? Essays? Packing? That’s what next week is for.

note– this blog is being published post-siesta, due to an unexpected Internet failure at the intended press time of 3:30 p.m.

I’m looking forward to many things this week, but am also quite frankly scared shitless of being thrust back into it all, and holy heartache, Batman– I miss Germany and D-Bag.  So much.  When I got to the US-bound flights terminal in the Munich airport, the American-ness was palpable.  So many overweight senior citizens complaining about the extra security or something they didn’t like about their bus tour of Germany, while sweating away in their Mickey Mouse track suits and visors.  Once we landed in Chicago and it was REAL, like real-real, yours truly wasn’t exactly bowling people over in the aisles to get my feet on American soil.  Let’s just try not and get salty tears all over your customs declaration form, okay Ma’am?  I guess this is my last post on the ol’ Iowa Girls Gone Wild; as we all know, you can find me here.  Good luck to Lauren in her return journey, but mostly with the whole saying of good-byes thing; it really does suck more than you could prepare yourself for.  WOW this post was much more Debbie Downer depressing than I’d planned on it being.  Overall, studying abroad was the BEST DECISION EVER and I MISS IT and it was GREAT, but I’m still REALLY hungry so will bid you Auf Wiedersehen, dear readers.  You’re the best (ok, you could have commented more.)  Thanks for putting up with my bipolarity and general uninteresting observations on all things about life abroad.  Time to go drink Diet Pepsi by the gallon and pee in public restaurants just because I can.

I got a surprising amount of sleep last night and am already showered, caffeinated, and marzipaned with plenty of time to get to the airport.  It’s raining and gloomy; typical Germany refusing to give me one last sunshine-y memory.  One of my two suitcases is quite certainly overweight, and just maneuvering both of them through bus, train, subway, and airport is the greatest source of my anxiety right now.  Either way, in just over 22 hours I should be coming down the escalator towards my father and Savannah in the Des Moines International (giggle) Airport.  I’ve left my flatmates a lovely note (because that’s really the most fitting good-bye considering our relationship) and got enormous bear hugs from the Slovak and my other neighbor last night.  I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, OH AND GUESS WHAT– my friend Katie and I WON karaoke the other night (D-Bag and I left early.)  The prize is a 50 Euro tab to be used at the bar, so while I’m sad I wasn’t there to claim my prize or use it, it’s probably for the best.  And by “won” I mean they put all of the participants’ names in a hat and randomly draw a winner each week, so it’s not like the judges were super impressed by my coordinated and oft-rehearsed boy band moves.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN, DEUTSCHLAND!  ICH LIEBE DICH UND ICH WERDE DICH VERMISSEN!!

Last night I sang karaoke for the first time in my life– Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That Way” AND Guns ‘n Roses’ “Sweet Child o Mine.”  The best part about these two songs, besides of course my obvious sobriety, was that I can sing them verbatim without the words on the screen.  This is especially helpful when one wants to really emote on stage, or if you were to say have the Sweet Child o Mine video memorized and want to swing the microphone by it’s cord during Slash’s last guitar solo, only to be verbally reprimanded by the German karaoke controller man.  My bad, sir.  My friend Katie also sang these with me so I didn’t feel like a complete fool, and there may be photos but I feel those are best left in the blackmail vault.

Is this my last post?  Am I supposed to come back with some sort of drawn out good-bye or a list of thank yous or multiple personal revelations about how studying abroad has changed my life?  I suppose I’ll save that for the plane, then give you one last nugget of wisdom so you know I’ve arrived safely.  In the meantime, get prepared for my triumphant return to blogging solo (the link is just a shameless plug to my other blog; like this one, only less direction, no Lauren, and more embarrassing self-promotion.)

Ever since my first day here, Elisa and I have had some in-depth conversations, at least for a guiri (me; derogatory Spanish term for foreigners) living with a native Spaniard. I remember talking about abortion, the death penalty and the Catholic priest scandal all within week one. Tonight we chatted over fish pizza and Nutella sandwiches about the mortgage crisis. I read a bunch of cheesy testimonies before I came here about how the best language practice is at home with a host family, and I can now confirm that there is something to those cheesy testimonies.

Most people wrote heartwarming accounts: memories of telling stories to their snot-nosed Spanish host siblings. If my program asked, I could come up with 500 words about Elisa’s philosophy on men and marriage. It’s true that I sometimes feel like an idiot here. I’m often acutely aware of my own foreignness, which only heightens my inhibitions. Sometimes I’m more self conscious at home than anywhere else, especially on a hypersensitive day when I’m tired of hearing my accent mocked. We went a few weeks sporadically where I behaved like a surly teenager, moping in my room and blabbing in English on Skype. But aside from these fleeting frustrations, living with Elisa was one of the best parts of my experience here (and in turn, sort-of living with her sort-of boyfriend, who I would equate to that one uncle, or your dad’s creepy cousin — the guy in every family — who moves in as if to kiss you on the cheek but then goes for your mouth. Whatever, I love him anyways). So when I leave in eight days, expect waterworks.

If I hadn’t lived here, who else would have dragged me to a shady discoteca midday on a Saturday 20 minutes outside of the city? Who else would have fed me snails and introduced me to the kickass dual-flavor off brand of Nutella? Who else would have encouraged me to make questionable life decisions every time I went out on a Thursday night (well, maybe I could have found someone to do that)? Who else would have gotten drunk on a Tuesday for my birthday and then dealt with the resulting hangover when she got up for work at 7 a.m. the next day? You may love your 70-year-old señora, and I’m sure she’s a sweetheart, but I wouldn’t change my living situation for the world.

I’ve never been sure if Elisa liked me all that much, but she made a comment Monday night that after me, she doesn’t think she’ll have a better student. I’m the first one she’s hosted. I told her not to make me cry. Then she said how great I am because I’m the equivalent of a human garbage disposal and will eat anything she puts in front of me. So okay, even if she’s hated me this whole time, she at least appreciates how embarrassingly not picky I am. If that’s not a moving cross-cultural bond worthy of being transformed into a made-for-TV movie, then I don’t know what is.

Most people in my program met at the Hofbrauhaus in Hamburg on Monday for some last liters of beer and good-byes and photos.  I also now really really really want my parents to redo our basement bar into a Hofbrauhaus theme.  GO WITH ME ON THIS, I think it’ll be great.  Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon walking around Luneburg, window shopping, browsing, souvenir-shopping… and came up pretty much empty handed.  I got some panoramic postcards of the place for myself and a new pair of jeans (on sale! 15 Euro!)  Oh and some gelato, but that was really just implied.  I am in no way joking or planning a secret souvenir surprise when I say I am literally empty-handed for all of you readers.  Oh wait, my brother’s getting a t-shirt.  Feel free to send in desperate last-minute e-mails if you were expecting something specific, but there’s nothing I’ve found that screams “Kayla HAS to have that” or “THIS would make a good Mother’s Day gift.”  Really, my presence is all anyone needs, and all anyone will be getting.  I don’t even have anything for NPH, and it’s his birthday in five days.  MY BAD.